Magic and How To Steal It
by Bladedhc
Summary: A gamer finds himself inserted not into the mind of a legendary character or monster, but into the head of a magical addict. Edit-This is a story I have worked on mostly in Questionable Questing, now I'm putting it here
1. Chapter 1

I got a shit deal. When most people die in stories like this they find themselves in the body of someone important, some king or hero with all the skills and abilities they could ever need to make the world however they wanted.

They would find their minds melded with a true prodigy of the arts of war and magic, using a combination of meta-knowledge and actual skill to pull themselves to the top, surrounded by beautiful, busty women who see to their every want and need.

I really would have liked to be in the bodies of one of those guys.

Yet here I am, nothing more than a magical crack-head ready to get murdered by passing early level adventurers.

I could have been Arthas, I could have been Thrall, Kel-thuzad, or any number of interesting people, but I wasn't.

I was Felendren the banished, I was Rick the nerd. Together our minds make a somewhat more ambitious being.

I currently sit atop the uppermost spire of Falthrien Acadamy, a beginners academy for magic among the elves.

The academy itself was an odd group of floating magical buildings, they had no walls, as the weather around this place was artificially perfect for elves, and they all were topped with a curved red roof. The individual buildings were covered in pillows were the students would sit and listen to their instructors.

Each of the buildings were patrolled by shoddily summoned mana wraiths I currently had under my control, weaker creatures summoned of mana and the raw energy of the twisting nether. I had dozens of them under my control, using stolen arcane silver from the old instructors here.

Before we merged Felendren was the son of a magister, and a talented one at that, but like many children, he used his talents to avoid studying over actually becoming a powerful mage like he should have been.

I would never understand how someone could be so lazy about making reality bend to your will. The first time Felendren had any sort of ambition or initiative had been when the Sunwell was destroyed by Arthas, and he was denied easy access to magic for the first time.

Like any person denied the source of his addiction he sought ways to get his next fix, consuming all magic he could all at once, corrupting his form into the figure I am now, a hunched being of deathly pallor known to the rest of my kind as one of the wretched.

I was considered a parasite on good Elven society, and they weren't wrong about me, I would kill and steal to get ahead in life, to acquire magic for myself.

The only difference was now I had goals aside from stabbing people for their mana.

Now I would stab them for their mana and their knowledge of magic. Felendren was once a prodigy after all, and I was eager to see what he would be capable of with me in control.

As an addicted madman, he murdered every experienced mage in a magical academy, and then made the magical help his own personal soldiers.

With me, in his head, we might just raise some hell and get the knowledge to be something worth the fear of what was once our people.

I had roughly forty mana wraiths and the ability to assault being minds with a spell known as mind-flay.

I also had the knowledge to make more mana wraiths and where to go to get myself some more power.

I got a bad deal, but as a being with infinite time to learn magic, and infinite ways to exploit my foreknowledge I think Ill be able to put myself ahead of the so-called heroes and kings of this world.

It was time to fuck shit up.

POV change (Well watcher Solonian)

"What do you mean it isn't there!" Solonian was a mage and elf of some power, a well watcher tasked to study ways to fix the destroyed Sunwell, the heart of his people.

He had tasked a few aspiring adventurers with acquiring his lost items, His scroll of dark magic, his scrying orb, and his personal notes on scourge magic.

He had left them in his hurry to tend to the madness Felendren had risen, corrupting the treants, stealing the mana wraiths and killing several of his instructors.

"Well sir we checked the places your possessions were supposed to be and they weren't there."

"Well look harder you fools, no-one would steal th- wait." The Well watcher froze, thinking on all the madness that had taken place in the last hours, and of the one who caused it all.

"Felendren!" "Ill stalk you to the ends of the earth for what you stole from me!"

POV change (Felendren)

I have no clue why any self-respecting mage would leave magical artifacts and knowledge about a forest filled with magical addicts, but I wasn't complaining either. I remember the questline quite well, and that bastard Solonian just gave me all I needed to get started on improving upon my currently shitty magical talents.

I took the wraiths from the academy and decided to bug out before they could send someone to kill me, at the very least they would have to do it in a harder place to find than a group of floating buildings.

The only real issue in leaving was that the only way off the isle aside from swimming my way through was walking through the ruins of Silvermoon, a place filled with guards and magical addicts like me.

Thankfully, leveling wasn't actually a thing or the elementals I brought wouldn't count for shit.

**Story I wrote in QQ, sending some of it over here.**


	2. Chapter 2

As I stumbled my ugly ass down the road I thought on how Felendren became one of the wretched.

He had been as pretty and well formed as all elves where before the Sunwell was destroyed by the undead Scourge, Its arcane energies once flowed through all of the high-born.

Like many of his people, Felendren was taught to absorb magic from his environment.

Animals, weapons and even other people where all easy sources of mana to draw upon. Doing so sated the addiction, but it was a far weaker alternative to the great font of power that we once held.

Many overdrew on the paltry substitute stealing magic was, warping their forms for a temporary stop to the hunger they felt. Felendren did not have the will nor the desire to hold himself back from taking all the energy he could, wracked with grief over his father and his mothers death, caused by the sudden disconnection to the font of energy his people once used to survive he fed on all he could, just to feel a shadow of ecstasy as he drew magic from his surroundings.

I couldn't really blame him for what he did, but I wasn't happy about being the guy who had to deal with it. Taking control of the addiction wouldn't help me anyway, my body was already fucked. My best option was finding a magical means of changing my body or taking someone else's.

My best bet was to go around taking peoples magical books, and parcing together a way to make a change while I learned from the stolen knowledge. I had Solonian's book on necromantic scourge magic and his notes on how it was affecting the land. They would be a start in improving my abilities as a magic user.

That said I had a plan based on stealing magic from all available sources, mages, warlocks, and necromancers everywhere now had to worry about me taking their shit. If I could I would also take the more esoteric kinds of magic available Blood magic, Void magic, hell I even wanted to take a try at Voodoo.

Voodoo was actually my next objective, at least partially. The Amani trolls who have been raiding into my lands had several interesting forms of magic I wanted to study, Felendrens experience with lower teir magic told me it was different than most, but had some real oomph to it.

I had my little war party stop in its place, A guard patrolling the entrance to the ruins of Silvermoon City was just ahead of me, He had noticed me, but the mana wraiths were out of sight, floating behind me as I stood at the top of a hill. The grin that crossed his face told me this would be a fight.

I was worried about my prospects, to be honest, elven guards in the game were 5 levels over the max and stood as elite units. Only a raid tier max level player would be able to take them, I hoped level standards didn't exist in real life as they did in the game, it would be awful to get slaughtered this early on in my quest for power.

"Felendren the banished, I've heard about you, there's a bounty of twenty silvers on your head to any guard who takes it. You've just earned me an easy meal."

The guard charged forward, crossing the distance between us with Elven grace and supreme ease. I attacked with the only offensive spell Felendren ever bothered to learn, Mind Flay.

A purple stream of energy emerged from my outstretched hand, hitting the guard in the face and slowing his approach, he screamed in pain before gritting his teeth and stomping forward. I was growing worried about his proximity before I remembered my minions.

With a mental command 40 ghostly figures floated over the hill and to the guard, his eyes widened as several dozen clawed spectral hands brought him to the ground. They honestly weren't very affective on their own, but they seemed a scary foe in a small horde.

As the guard was screaming on the ground, Covered in blood and claw marks, I approached him and placed my hand over his head. His eyes widened and glowed, before he screamed as I pulled the magic from his form, draining every last drop of mana.

It felt as if I could kill gods when I drew away, the power at my fingertips at that moment felt glorious before it mostly faded instantly. I wanted more.

When I pulled away he was shivering and gasping, he would be like me soon, being drained of mana completely would force most elves into drawing far too much magic at once and being driven mad by it. I had the mana wraiths finish him off before I led them further into the ruins of the once great city.

As we stepped into the gates I noticed several civilians scatter before my approach, hoping I wouldn't kill them for their mana. I probably would have if I wasn't looking to get through the city and into Eversong woods beyond before the guards brutally murdered me.

Before me was the ruined remains of an elven city, once beautiful architecture lay in shattered ruins, within destroyed palaces I could see other wretched glaring at me as I strode past, they wanted my mana, but I wanted out.

Several unstable Arcane guardians strode past me, under the wretched control they were able to hold off most guards from clearing out the city, they were great lumbering golems, golden stone floating together in the vague shape of a humanoid, powered by a crystal at its center.

They seemed unable to tell I wasn't with the local gangs and allowed me to pass them by. After a few minutes more of walking, I finally saw the gate into Eversong. A small section of the city near the gate remainder under Blood-Elven control guards patrolled in pairs along the street, somber civilians made sad attempts at selling things and offering services to eke out some small living.

One desperate civilian even tried selling cheese to the guards from a makeshift stand. How far had we fallen?

I counted at least twenty guards along the street, protecting the small holdout with double-sided blades and towering shields. My minions were unlikely to win such a battle, they were made to sweep the floors of an academy, not fight. A mana wraith could only move slightly faster than a brisk walk and could only strike lightly with the strength of a sad old man.

The claws are surprisingly effective, but only in large numbers against a single target.

Thankfully I only needed them to distract the guards, I could always make more in the future. With a gesture of my hands, they fell upon two of the guards, killing them before they could react properly. I quickly hid behind some barrels as the rest of the guards jumped in, killing them with single blows of the blades they carried. It was a slaughter.

Which gave me the time to run past them and into the woods, where I would begin my magical journey.


	3. Chapter 3

I rushed out of the gates, none of the guards noticed my passing. I witnessed the beauty of the Eversong woods for the first time. Golden rays of sunshine peeked through the treeline, illuminating flocks of peaceful dragonhawks, treants and more in a display of innocence and wonder that frankly would have made me want to hurl if I didn't know all the darkness behind it.

This place was artificially created to be the place of wonder it is, elven magic forced through standard forests that looked much more mundane than this, creating a golden land seemingly perpetually between spring and autumn. Behind me a massive golden and red city stood, divided by a great black scar cutting through the woods, filled with gibbering hordes of the undead, silently marching to put the final nail in the coffin of my once great people. They were matched by a small gathering of tired rangers, preventing them from reaching the ruins of the city.

I could feel the death magic seeping into the land, corrupting the soil and trying to spread outward. The magic sought to perpetuate itself.

I would be studying into that soon enough.

With that happy thought in mind, I made my way down the road, careful to avoid any contact with patrolling guards. I didn't have a horde of minions anymore, so fighting them seemed a poor decision. I began to travel towards the Troll owned territory in the woods. If I remembered correctly it was known as Tor'Watha.

I would hide out there for a while, the trolls didn't have strong enough presence to stop me, and the blood elves were stretched far too thin to wipe them out so soon after the crippling blow the Scourge dealt us. It had only been a few months after all.

I snuck my way through bushes and trees, ducking past guards and rangers as they went about their business. I passed the base of the local rangers, the Farstriders, a few hours later. Troll territory was in my sight just as night fell over the woods and the crickets began chirping.

I avoided a number of crazed treants along the way, man-sized trees walking upon clusters of roots, the only thing marking them as different from regular trees being the faces they had and the relatively small size of them. The tainted magic of the land turned them from helpful nature spirits to crazed predators seeking to destroy local wildlife.

When I finally saw the odd huts and building unique to the trolls I knew I was in the right place. With their position confirmed I climbed my way up a nearby tree and kept an eye on the comings and goings, learning what little I could before falling asleep.

With the waking world came the opportunity to investigate my recently aquired magical tome, a book on necromancy and how it worked. It seemed to have been taken from a necromancer of some power, probably one of the necromancers who attacked us among the Scourge.

Reading through its complex rituals and formulas would have been an issue if Felendren didn't already have a somewhat acceptable knowledge of the basics of magic. I still couldn't really understand the more complex spells and rituals, but the basics seemed within the realm of possibility.

The first spell I wanted to make an effort towards was deathbolt, a concentrated bolt of death magic sent by the user towards a foe, causing instant decay along the body. Its power would increase as I put more raw mana into it.

After some time reading the necessary shaping of the magic I decided I knew enough to attempt it upon a nearby tree. The magic was difficult to shape in my hands, and I could feel my natural capacity towards the more natural arcane works of magic being shaded by dark.

Even with new enthusiasm towards magic, it took hours of trying before I could form what seemed to be a proper bolt. It took another hour after that for me to make one that would last long enough to actually reach the tree, but when it did the effect was immediate. A black mark spread across the tree from where I struck it. It was working!

With a new purpose, I stalked from the tree with a grace I hadn't had as a human, before stalking towards the treants I put so much effort into avoiding earlier. They would prove good practice if nothing else.

I made sure to find one separated from its fellows, there was no need to fight a horde of angry tree monsters. It was a smaller one, just out of its sapling stage. It screeched as the shadow flowed over it, melting its roots away.

The creature screeched pitifully for a moment before I decided to throw another at it to speed the process. The creature silenced immediately. I grinned at my hand, sparking with dark magic.

This was a good day. I was sure of it.

I still wasn't comfortable traveling without proper meatshields, and with my current mastery, it would be at least two weeks before I could raise even a bunny from death. It was time to gather up a few more Arcane wraiths, without the help of the tower I would need to use dark magic to summon them. The kind of magic that needs a proper sacrifice to generate the power to summon even a weak being from the twisting nether.

I smiled as I readied my self for my first act of pseudo necromancy. I looked into the woods where the other treants resided, deciding they would do.

I quickly snuck through the woods, finding a few treants clustered together, digging their roots into a dying dragon hawk. This was my moment. I quickly tossed a Deathbolt at the closest treant, making it howl as rot spread across its barky hide.

The three others turned to me before charging with surprising speed. I was able to put two more bolts into the one I already wounded as I backed away, bringing it to the ground but not killing it.

I managed to put several more into another before I ran from the remaining two, breaking my concentration and sprinting across the field. The things had surprising speed, but not enough to match a desperate elf.

When I turned I quickly threw more bolts around, unfortunately fully killing one before the last reached me. It tried to strike at me, scoring a glancing hit before I stepped forward and drained the magic from it.

My now bleeding shoulder throbbed at me, but I ignored it as I approached the first dying treant. I quickly conducted the ritual around the creature, drawing magic from its form and using it as a catalyst to pull at the home of the mana wraiths.

Within a couple of moments the shadowed form of a mana wraith, tainted by dark magic appeared before me, its eyes glowing black against the purple and blue of its ghostly and vague form. I had to substitute dark magic and a sacrifce into the ritual to summon and controll the creature without arcane silver, but it worked well enough.

I repeated the same process two more times, using the dragon hawk for one of them. I took three new minions with me further into the forest.

I would have to summon quite a few for what I have in mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Draining mana from the land around me didn't just turn me into a nosferatu looking fucker, it also provided advantages tempting enough for a race of elves to corrupt their physical and mental selves in the pursuit of it.

I hadn't eaten since I arrived in this place, and I had spent the past three days simply hunting and killing local animals and using their life force to make mana wraiths enough for the next step in my master plan. I never rested throughout all of that time, I found I didn't need to, not with all the magic in the land, dark or otherwise.

By the time I felt I was ready I was nearly bursting at the seems from all the magic, I was overfilling just so I could use magic to a degree capable of matching even one of the stronger mages out there in raw power. For a short time at least, I would burnout far too quickly to manage a full battle, and taking anymore into myself would kill me.

I looked to the darkened and shaded forms of the mana wraiths under my control, I could feel their primitive minds grow eager at the prospect of violence, they could sense I was ready. They were beings of the twisting nether, corrupted by dark magic, it wouldn't be completely incorrect to call them demons at this point, even if it wasn't quite right.

I had created four hundred monsters, and now planned to unleash them upon the world. It would be a gamble to make anymore of them, already they were difficult to hide from the elves and the trolls. Hopefully the trolls wouldn't be as effective killers as the Guards were.

When night fell on the fourth day I marched under cover of darkness towards Tor'watha as the trolls celebrated the recent raids against my people.

The small village of wooden huts with grass ceilings was alight with the celebrations of more than fifty trolls, as I approached I noticed them eating the roasted flesh of the local rangers, tearing at them even as they screamed in pain and horror. It was far from the worst they were capable of, and I was counting on it.

I could see the naked forms of several Amani Trolls having their way with several elven woman. Their naked forms glistened with sweat as their perfect bodies were ravaged by one of the oldest enemies of our people. They loved every second of it.

I could see one particularly endowed woman bouncing up and down on a grinning Troll, another wrapped her legs around her captor and begged him to fill her with his seed, to give her a strong half-blooded son. I smiled, that meant this was the right place.

The Trolls had access to a particular kind of magic, and it could be used to create a number of vile and terrible concoctions beyond what even the most evil and demented alchemists were capable of. Among them was a mixture capable of bending the wills of those who drank it to the first individual they saw as they drank. In a layman's terms they had mind control.

The horny bastards just proved to me they had it somewhere in this village.

With a gesture I had my minions, near invisible in the night, surround the outpost as I watched on. Where was the one who made such a potion? Where was the leader of this camp? I would wait until it was clear who they where before I attacked.

The revelry lasted quite some time, before the trolls finally got bored of abusing their new slaves. "Da slaves are used up a bit to much Chief Jor'tusa! Weres dat witch-doctor with more of the mind juice!" A larger troll with better equipment than his fellows called into one of the larger buildings in the outpost.

"We got some more of da juice boy, dont rush the witchdoctor!" A very large troll with a very fancy headdress stepped outside, clearly the leader of this "village". Within a few minutes a troll in robes made from the pelts of local Lynx stepped outside, accompanied by two more trolls carrying a large cauldron. They were met with cheers.

The cauldron was placed at the camps center, before several more elven women were dragged forward, horrified at the behavior of their friends and allies. One of them was brought forward by the chieftain, a woman of modest bust(By elf standards) and a perfectly toned ass.

"This one was the leader of that group that attacked our city last year, the whore who killed my son! She will bear me a new son, and restore the family she stole from me!" The trolls roared as he made his speech. The ranger captain simply sniffed, and looked to Jor'tusa.

"Your misbegotten kind should have been wiped out a thousand years ago, I will die before I carry a trolls child." The chief smiled at her "We be seeing about that captain." With that he grabbed the ladle within the cauldron, and withdrew the soupy liquid from its depths.

She fought as they tried to feed her the potion, but once they held her nose and locked her jaw it was certain that she would drink. She sputtered and wailed at her plight, before collapsing at his feet. When she looked up at the chieftain it was with clouded eyes. "Whores should always pleasure their masters."

"Whore should always pleasure their masters." She echoed back, before her face was guided to his cock, and she began deepthroating him with relish. I had all the information I would need.

With a mental command the shadows surrounding the camp seemed to come to life and attack the trolls as my Mana Wraiths followed my command. The trolls were surprisingly quick to respond, gasping in fear and yelling about spirits before quickly brandishing their weapons and attacking just as my minions began the slaughter.

Corrupted wraiths seemed more intimidating, and had a talent for violence I hadn't seen in their purer counterparts. Unfortunately that didn't mean they were very strong. Which is why I readied to intervene even with the numbers on my side. Several trolls were torn apart by the dozens of spectral figures that assaulted the camp, but many were able to retaliate, bringing one or even several of them down in singular blows.

The witch doctor unleashed bolts of lightening with speed and power far beyond my own skill, accompanied by the war-chief as he attacked with two tomahawks. They would rally their men long before my minions would taste victory themselves.

I struck the witch doctor with an overpowered death-bolt, fueled by dark-magic I stole directly from the dead scar, enhanced to power to equal a powerful necromancer. He stumbled as his skin turned a paler green, before the place I hit him turned dark with rot. He collapsed as he turned to face me, too damaged to retaliate, he would live for now, but my magic had rotted away a good portion of his spine, effectively taking him out of the fight.

The chieftain was quickly swarmed without support, and while the wraiths couldn't kill him, he could not kill enough of them to reach me before I took the time to charge another death-bolt with the rest of the magic I had drained over the past day. The bolt of magic flew through the shadowed form of a corrupted wraith, before popping his head like a balloon. Quickly I supported the wraiths through the rest of the battle, flaying the minds of several trolls as they fought. With no natural defense and resistance like my people they were quick to become gibbering prisoners begging for mercy.

I smiled as the last of them fell, and restrained the overeager minions from tearing at them. I looked at the group of elven prisoners I had just stolen from the trolls. They didn't seem relieved at my presence.

"Hello there."


	5. Chapter 5

The elven woman who hadn't drank the potion looked on in horror as I killed their controlled fellows. They were eager to avenge their troll masters and honestly I didnt want to have to look after a couple dozen halfbreeds in a few months. One could never know just how virile those things could be.

Instead I simply used them to shore up some of my lost mana wraiths, and restore my own personal reserves. When I had 35 more wraiths than before I moved on to my troll prisoners in silence, feeding them the very elixir they thought of as such an asset, some struggled, but many had been reduced to a catatonic state by my mind-flay, and simply drank it when it was poured into their mouths.

The witch-doctor whimpered and yelled from his position on the ground. "Necromancer! The Scourge agreed they would leave us alone so long as we fought wit em! Why betray us now?" I looked at the troll, and laughed as I forced his own mind-control juice down his throat, forcing his eyes to lock with my own.

When his struggles ceased and he went silent I stood and looked over my new camp. Fifteen trolls, including the witch-doctor, remained. They belonged to me now. "How long before you can walk witch-doctor?" The broken thing looked up at me, struggling to stand with as his legs failed to respond.

"Seems like two weeks boss." Troll regeneration is bullshit, its one of the reasons we didn't wipe them out all those years ago when we settled here. Two weeks would do well enough, and he could tutor me on his odd brand of magic in the mean time.

I looked to the troll warriors standing around me. "Two of you take the witch-doctor to his hut, and see to his health. The rest of you are to patrol the camp and look like nothing has changed, eat the bodies and complain about being too overeager with the women.

I looked at the rangers left. "You will drink the potions here." One of them scoffed "You think well listen to a wretched, one under the scourge's will? Id rather be a slave to one of those trolls!" She was met with agreement from her comrades. I raised an eyebrow, they think I'm a necromancer. I suppose from an outsiders perspective it would look like that.

No sense in not using that to my advantage.

"Drink the potions, or Ill tear the souls from your bodies and use them to reanimate some of these trolls." The protests faded immediately. The women paled and looked between each other, before gathering around the cauldron. They drank the potion one by one, I made sure they each focused on me as they did.

Rangers were of the most well desired elven women around, enhanced by a life of athletics and the magics that give us our good looks the tended to be particularly beautiful. Having several of them at my beck and call was a prospect both sides of me couldn't resist.

"You will accompany me to the chiefs hut." I watched as they all wandered into my new abode, This was already working out better than Felendren's old situation. Before the change I was never looked at by the elven women, or the human ones, My less than pleasing form in my human life and perpetual fear was matched by Felendren's lack of effort into his own appearance, and his own laziness as an elf.

Now I had magic, and a harem. The only problem now is that I want a better place to reside than here. This place is shit even by troll standards, and a life as a human in modern times, or that as an elf in a magical society demanded more opulent conditions than what I had at present.

It would be foolish to set up shop anywhere else before my power grew though. The new me was no fool.

I celebrated my victory with venison and as much sex as I wanted, fucking each woman with vigor enhanced by magic and all the eagerness I had ever had. Each of those perfect bodies writhed under me again and again as I plowed into them, their perfect, toned flesh and ample forms were nearly as addicting as the magic was.

It took considerable effort to pull myself from their resting forms in the morning, but I had work to do. I had come this far with guile and luck, but if I wanted to succeed and achieve magic beyond my wildest dreams I would need to show the kind of work ethic that was uncommon to Rick and Felendren.

I quickly entered the Witch-doctors hut, setting all the books I had acquired down as I looked to the Troll who probably would have killed me if I hadn't surprised him so perfectly. He was laying on a cot of animal hide, resting as his impressive regeneration tried to restore his back and spine to working order.

I sat across from him and studied the works I had gathered, taking note of the necromatic magics within. It spoke of the physiology of the undead in its lesser and greater forms, of the near art required to assemble many of the monstrosities that stalked the ghostlands beyond eversong today. It spoke of rituals and studies on the magic corrupting this land, and all its applications. It was incomplete, the work of an incredible mage deciphering something he had barely come to understand.

This book was a mix of scraps from dead necromancers and the notes of someone with an outsiders perspective on undeath. It would teach me for some time, but I would need tutors for anything beyond mild power at best in this world.

Thankfully I now had a means of acquiring a tutor in nearly any kind of magic, one who would fight and die at my will. The mind control voodoo of the trolls would earn me the teachings of anyone I targeted and ambushed.

The stirrings of my newest teacher pulled me from my thoughts, the witch doctor quickly sat up and looked at me. "You be needing something boss?"

Two practitioners of magic sat in a hut in the Eversong woods, smiling at the evils they would soon commit.

"Teach me."

**This format is a pain for work you already did, but I'm getting used to it.**


	6. Chapter 6

Sunsail anchorage was once an example of Elven superiority. It was a beautiful port overlooked by a three story building, the overlook, once home to the port master.

Before the Scourge attacked dozens of elves traveled to and fro, travelling to local islands and foreign lands for trade and military purposes.

Unfortunately the mana addiction and lack of policing in the area meant it was now controlled by Wretched Pirates seeking their next fix and nothing more.

They had stolen weapons, supplies, and perhaps most importantly a perfect location with access to the Great Sea.

Those Wretched now in control of the anchorage found themselves living what could perhaps be the best life among their new "people". The constant influx of supplies and mana alike acquired from new lives of piracy and murder kept the wretched at a level of mental clarity mostly unseen to their kind.

The sheer availability of mana meant they could think and plan as easily as any elf, setting ambushes and waiting for proper opportunity to take advantage of the shattered kingdom they once called home.

Were most wretched bodies were wracked with withdrawal and their minds hyper focused on the aquisistion of more mana, the wretched of Sunsail anchorage had no such weakness.

So far no less than six attempts had been made by the remains of the ranger forces, and what little could be drawn from militias. All have failed to do anything but add to wretched ranks, the would be attackers drained of mana and left in cells as their bodies twisted into something hideous.

Aldaron The Reckless led this new scourge of pirates, guiding his underlings with the steady hand of a veteran ship captain.

Atop the Anchorage overlook he supped on the finest foods, enjoyed a bounty of mana, and enjoyed the flesh of mana starved elf women, yet to be corrupted.

They would do nearly anything for even the lightest amount of mana, and the proximity with his personal stash made them particularly docile.

After the sixth assualt he and the lietanants under his command had come to the conclusion the military could not dedicate the neccasary forces to remove them from their chosen home.

The celebrations had gone on for weeks, only stopping when they finally ran out of Arcane crystal.

Of course it hadnt taken much effort to seize both the neccasary mana crystals and more women from a ship sponsered by a magister.

Aldaron had been watching the heaving breasts of a top heavy blonde, the magister's daughter, as she rode him one night when the alarms where raised for the first time in nearly a month.

He probably should have directed his lackeys in the defense, but honestly he doubted the rangers or the guard could do anything at this point.

After the king's self imposed exile the already scattered forces of their people dwindled to mere hundreds. Only the demonic magics the Sin-Dorei had recently started to absorb kept some semblance of order in the kingdoms, allowing what was left of the magisters to controll the wards keeping invaders from their heartlands.

Still, he should probably wrap it up.

With that in mind he flipped his current lay, putting her on her back and listening as she squealed. He seized her breasts as he pounded her with several furious thrusts, feeling her warm insides as her legs wrapped around him.

He filled her with his seed, feeding her some trickle of mana from a nearly depleted arcane crystal as he did, watching her skin pale and her lips start to purple as she tried to draw on nothing.

She would change soon, her beauty melting away just as his did, just as everyone else's soon would. He would have to find a replacement soon.

He left her laying on a massive pillow, his seed oozing out of her. If she wasn't still pretty tommorow he would throw her off the tower.

With a sigh he picked up his claymore with some reluctance, and began striding down the building.

When he finally reached the bottom floor he was met with the sight of no less than a dozen trolls fighting their way through his tower.

His eyebrows raised as nearly four-hundred tainted mana-wraiths swarmed across his anchorage, slaughtering the wretched even as they were directly absorbed by the pirates they attacked.

At the lead of the assault was a troll witch-doctor, his hands already full of pale green energy, ironically pulled from the wretched around him.

He made to charge the apparent leader of the attackers in an attempt to rally his men. After all he led seventy-five pirates, and some trolls and a swarm of concentrated mana more suited for sweeping the floors than actual combat werent exactly as great a threat as they seemed at first glance.

He might have actually won too, if it weren't for the knife that quickly found itself in his back before his charge could really begin.

Aldaron the reckless wheezed, looking behind him at the grinning form of a wretched that had grown infamous over the past month for his daring escape into the eversong woods, and the murder of four elite guards.

"You."

Felendren's grin grew.

"Me."

Felendren twisted the knife, and left Aldaron to bleed at the foot of his new overlook.

Felendren The Banished seized Sunsail Anchorage overnight, slaughtering every wretched within.

By the next morning scouts would report the strange sight of trolls and mana-wraiths patrolling the port, gathering the bodies of the wretched who once controlled it in a great mound.

Authorities were informed of a new bandit lord in the area.

From atop the overlook Feledren commanded his small army, having them stockpile weapons and supplies as he studied magics with an enslaved Witch-doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

I found myself pondering my next move as I washed my face in the stream water next to my new base of operations.

The figure looking back at me from the water grew more unrecognizable by the day. Both me and Felendren hated the visage looking back at us.

I had been subsisting off of magic alone for nearly three months now. Feeding off the land and whatever victims I could find in order to stave off the need for sleep or food.

I spent a month learning dark magic and Voodoo at the small Amani village I stole, and two more at my new place in Sunsail.

The combination of corruption and decay upon my body had not been kind. The last of my hair had fallen off in clumps days ago, and my relatively lithe body had grown gaunt and wisp-like.

My hands shook from withdrawal even though I had been supping on magic with greater intensity each day. I was dying in the name of my own advancement, killing myself with overuse.

All because I was running out of time. One of my Amani scouts reported sightings of a horde delegation entering Silvermoon city just two days ago.

I had been using all the time I had to make as much progress in magic as possible in such a short amount of time, just in an effort to seize what advantages I could from this place before it once again became a force to be reckoned with.

Even before the horde representatives came to speak with the Lord Regent about a possible common cause I had been seeing more and more magical constructs emerge from the city, the magisters were working overtime to build the necessary military might to both fight off the undead and push the wretched out.

The Elves may not have as much flesh and blood at their side, but even now they were of the most magically powerful kingdom's on this god-forsaken world, if not the most.

When an alliance was inevitably struck the Blood Elves would have all the military support they need to reclaim their land.

I plan to be long gone when that happens. My people will probably remember my many crimes when they have the resources to take back the valuable port I now controlled.

Demon corrupted as we are now I doubt my punishment would be merciful.

To combat this possibility I had become something of an adept in necromancy, and a relatively passing student in Voodoo as well.

The problem was that all magic, even the relatively easier to use Dark magics were complicated things. It would take me ten years to be considered note worthy in any magical social circles, and that was just to a single subject.

I had ambitions of using all form's of magic I could make available to myself.

Now, technically as an elf I had the time to do that sort of thing, but I knew for a fact there would be world changing events nearly every two years. Within ten years alone the legion itself would invade this world.

If I followed traditional routes to power I could be a respected mage by that time, but I had no such intention.

Which means I had to rely on more than just my own mind and personal skill. If I wanted to become something truly special I would need the combined effort of many different kinds of practitioners.

Thankfully I actually now have the mean's to make that happen, and a fortress to hold several magic user's under my command for the time being.

My Anchorage was now supported by a force of two dozen Amani warriors, Seventy undead wretched in the form of zombie labor, and nearly eight hundred of my own personal brand of Mana wraiths.

We had set palisades and small barricades in the rough resemblance of a wall around the outside of the anchorage, fortifying it to the best of our ability using the tree's nearby.

The combination of open fields in front of my pseudo fortress and cover for my forces meant even the reinvigorated forces of my people couldn't chance taking this place yet.

Not without sacrificing far too many lives for a port that wouldn't see use for a couple of months yet anyway.

Which meant I had time to take advantage of the current state of affairs.

I couldn't attack the Blood-elves in fear of retaliation, but I could attack some of the other groups that had started to gather in the area.

The local necromancers producing more undead for the scourge were at a nearly perfect level of skill for my particular set of circumstances.

They were all relatively skilled practitioners, but the majority of them had yet to undergo any of the processes into undeath most of the senior leadership tend to lean towards.

Across from Silvermoon by just ten miles, past the Dead-scar, was the fortress of Deathholme, where a traitorous Blood-elf led the scourges failing efforts at finishing off my people.

The necromancers within and around that place were vulnerable. All living beings, even necromancers were susceptible to the Amani mixture.

I gathered a hundred Mana Wraiths, and my personal advisor Ti'swena, the Witch-doctor, and made for the Ghost-lands.

Ti'swena, whom I affectionately refer to as Tim, had been producing the mind control elixir in as large a quantity as we could manage.

I made sure to bring along as much of it as I could with me, storing the mixture in bottles of what was once vintage wine in a backpack I stole.

As we crossed the inner wards of silvermoon, and passed the river boundary, we entered the land of magical corruption that was the Ghostlands, I felt ambition fill me.

I would be so much more than respected in ten years. I would be so much more than above average as a practitioner.

Jaina, Kel-thuzad, and even Gul-dan would be nothing to me.

They would all tremble in my wake.


	8. Chapter 8

The Ghost-lands were oddly comforting. The tingle of black magic around me and the scent of decay in the air called out to my flesh.

Elves were never supposed to feed off this kind of magic.

The Night-elves existed off the power of life and nature, The highborn existed for so long off of the Arcane.

Damaged as we have become, we proved that Arcane wasn't all we could live off of. Most of my people use the fell now, at the demand of Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, our missing king.

My foray's into dark magic and already existing corruption may be the only reason absorbing death magic has kept me alive so long.

I know for a fact the majority of the Elves who tried the same died in the early days, finding themselves as nothing more than puppets soon after.

I suppose that makes me lucky.

Still, walking around looking like Gollum was depressing, even more so in the world of supernaturally atttractive people that was Azeroth.

Almost all the people of this world were incredibly attractive by some standard. The only exception's arose around the more beast-like races.

All that and here I stand, ugly as sin.

At least I still had those rangers waiting for me at Sunsail.

We marched through the Ghostlands in silence, stoping only to put down some of the rabid beasts that attacked us. We stuck to the Eastern side, keeping away from roads and the Dead-scar itself.

We would be passing through Troll territory. I figure Tim could guide us through it well enough.

The Mana-Wraiths easily stuck to the shadows, seeming disapearing within them. The corruption of the forest kept it in a state of near constant Dusk during the day, and pitch dark at night. Something I planned on using to my advantage.

We passed the ruin's of a village known as Suncrown, making sure to avoid entering, and only straying close enough to get a glimpse of it.

I didn't see the monstrous undead nerubians that had taken it over in the game, but the web's covering it all hinted at their presence.

I wasn't here to take part in worthless fights. Certainly not one's I might not win.

Once we had cleared Suncrown we came to a decently sized lake connected to the river boundary to Eversong. Across the lake sat a building of elven design known as the Farstrider enclave.

It's purpose was to be a staging point for the Farstrider's to attack Deathholme, but the had been distracted as of late.

The Shadow-pine troll's were using Voodoo to ressurect their warriors and hero's from old tombs. The mummies were just as effective now as they were in life.

Tim was familiar with them, the Shadow-pine held something of a vassal status with the Amani.

We passed a tower on our way, the home to Dar'Khan Drathir, leader of the scourge in this area. It was guarded by amped up contructs, hiding his research into void magic.

In a way it was their the Void elves would be born. That hyporcrite sister to Slyvannas Windrunner, our old Ranger-general.

The human's abandon us to the undead, and she has the arrogance to admonish us for sideing with the Horde.

I avoided the tower, passing through, finally into Shadow-pine territory.

There were several small villages and outposts in this area. They would hopefully let me swell my number's enough to attack Deathholme momentarily, letting me slip in with the Wraiths and abduct the necromancer's within.

The first outpost we approached was small, home to a simple scouting party with the sole purpose of annoying the local Farstrider's. Nothing more than Fifteen inhabitants.

They didn't see the wraiths until it was far too late, quickly finding themselves mauled under the tide of weak magical constructs.

I made sure they were incapacitated instead of killed, my Arcane-Wraiths suffering nearly twenty losses as a result.

The trolls were all reduced to quivering piles of flesh, their skin nearly torn asunder by their raking claws. I looked them in the eyes and watched the change take hold of them.

We rested at the outpost for about an hour, letting the Troll's regeneration bring them back to fighting form.

The added help of that outpost made the next easier, allowing us to add twenty more to our ranks at the cost of only five wraiths and a single troll.

The next two were taken without casualty.

Of the Outpost's I managed to aquire four more Witch-doctors. I kept them close to me, they would probably prove useful later.

I didn't attack any of the three major villages of Trolls in fear they would realize I was using their own alchemy against them, and take some kind of measure against it.

Theres a reason the Troll's here don't have an empire like they once did in the past, there were several ways to get around the concoction I was using.

They just can't be used by those already afflicted.

When our numbers swelled to around sixty trolls I moved on to the local wildlife, having my new pets gather the local giant spider's, bat's, and Lynx to be sacrificed for more Arcane-Wraiths.

When my ritual of binding had been complete I had the Lynx and bat's skinned, and the spider's poison gathered.

I only had them stop gathering such things nearly two days later, when the sheer number of my constucts created a shadowy mist around us, the Wraiths incorporeal forms melting together as I had them cluster around me.

Once I was certain we were ready, I had the troll's move from their forest refuge, and dive into the Deadscar itself, just a hundred yards off from the massive gates of Deathholme. I watched them begin to battle the stream of skeletons and zombies as they trickled down the unholy pathway.

Once the necromancers took notice a quickly growing horde began to gather around my minions, emerging from behind the gate by the dozen.

I crept along the side of the wall as the undead ran and or stumbled past, slipping inside with my wraiths just as my Troll's retreated into the foliage.

The gate closed behind me shortly after.

Hopefully I could snag a few necromancer's before they came back again. I had them scheduled to return in two hours.


	9. Chapter 9

The Fortress of Deathholme was not a pleasant place. It was a festering blight upon my land, A blackened structure towering over the land these creatures thought to steal from my people.

This was one of the bastions of the enemy. These creatures nearly broke my people, killed my family, and led me into the life of a wretched fiend.

I was an addicted parasite because of them.

I would see it burned to ashes if I could, but spitting into its leaderships eye by taking their necromancers as slaves would have to be close enough.

I kept my wraiths wrapped around me tightly, forcing them into a cloak of shadow magic naturally melding us into the shadow the walls cast. My vision was obscured and I trembled with the proximity to so much magic at once, but doing this made certain that even if I was seen most would assume I was one of the shades.

I moved with the utmost caution, relying on the inherently evil magic surrounding me to cloak me from prying eyes.

I was more than capable of taking down most magic users at the common level, apprentice necromancers would be no different.

However the things that resided in this place where not at all common. Some of the worst the scourge had to offer guarded this place. Towering abominations of flesh patrolled the rotten soil and broken paths, passing skeletal mages and soldiers.

At the corners and in the dark places ghosts, banshee's and undead shades watched, trapped within the eternal torment and awareness that their existence had become.

There were necromancers too. Most spending time raising the corpses gathered by lesser undead an acolyte alike. Some seemed to be educating acolytes they had taken a liking to.

I waited as they went about their dark business, searching for an opportunity. The Scourge was efficient, and well organised among its living members. Easy to predict.

The problem was the undead weren't. When they weren't being directly controlled they tended to wander aimlessly. It took nearly an hour before I felt it was safe to slowly make my way into a Ziggurat. They were pyramid like structures used as a sort of battery for the undead. The magic allowing them to function without a necromancers direct intervention.

Undead without such sources powering them became slow, lethargic, and in some(very rare) cases where even able to regain their will.

They are managed by higher ranking necromancers, but when things distracted them, like say a group of trolls breaking a non-aggression pact, they left their students in charge of them.

When I stepped into the ziggurat I was greeted with the sight of a dozen elves and humans dressed in blackened robes, channeling dark magic into a floating orb at the center of the room. Pools of green ichor flowed in the rooms center, bathing the room in sickly light.

Alone, unguarded, and most importantly distracted, they couldn't defend themselves from the tide of wraiths suddenly exploding from me, and enveloping the room in a curtain of writhing darkness.

When most of my wraiths withdrew back around my form, bathing me in shadow, I was met with the sight of necromancers covered in small cuts, screaming as a number of wraiths continued to attack them, keeping them from reacting.

I wasted no time, quickly pulling a stopper out of an old wine bottle and forcing it into the mouth of the acolyte closest to me. He struggled against me, but consumed enough of the mixture for his binding to be complete.

I pulled the bottle from his lips only when his struggles ceased fully, and only when I was certain no desire to disobey remained.

"Help me with the others."

"Yes, my lord."

I had him work with the wraiths, holding the next student down and forcing his eyes to meet my own.

The others struggled, screamed and yelled, attempting to cast spells at me before my work was complete, but as the group grew and I had more helpers to keep them in place I found I had little issue convincing them that I was a more ideal master than the scourge.

When twelve necromancers stood in a line before me I readied for the next and final part of my plan.

I had no desire to challenge a practiced necromancer within the heart of his power, let alone the dozens that resided within this place. I would not chance attacking another ziggurat and discovering a group of students more prepared for an attack.

However it would be a waste to leave a place with so much knowledge alone when it was this ripe for my taking.

"Go to your quarters and any other place you can freely walk, and take as many tomes on necromancy and dark magic as you can carry, before returning to me. Take personal notebooks if you can as well, but do not risk revealing your new allegiance."

They dispersed immediately at my command. The tomes they might bring back could have far more worth to me than some novice magic users. If I was lucky the works they would all bring back would be enough to keep me occupied for quite some time.

I waited for ten minutes to give them the time they needed to get back before my work was finished, before I looked to the crystal of necrotic energy hovering above me. I raised my palm toward it, gritting my teeth to prepare for the mix of pain and pleasure I knew would come of this.

My hand sparked with pale blue light as it extended, and my hungering eyes watched as enough energy to keep an army of undead ready for battle for weeks trailed toward me.


	10. Chapter 10

It took far too much restraint for me not to just absorb the whole of the magic before me. Even with the sure knowledge I would die in the process of doing so, the high I knew I could get just from this one little orb was almost worth it.

Rick whispered in the back of my mind this was nothing compared to what we could really put together. His memories suggested this to be true.

The human within me came from a strange land, one where his world was of fiction. As shaking as that was to me as an individual it did present an opportunity.

One they both knew could be used for more magic.

The sound of yelling in the distance and Troll war-chants informed my my other minions where on schedule. I didnt have to look outside to know the gates had opened for more undead to sally out and attack the aggressors.

They would probably die soon if I didn't help them, and I was certain without their help I would follow them into death shortly afterward.

With that in mind I forced myself not to overly partake, draining only enough to fill my reserves to the brim, and then just a bit more.

Right when I was certain the overflow was going to kill me, I tore away from the energy, making sure to leave it destabilized and volatile to the next individual to draw upon the magics of the orb.

The effect was immediate, even to my relatively untrained eyes. I could feel the death magic weakening with every moment. A glance outside revealed a number of crumbling skeletons and dissipating ghosts.

Many of the undead in the immediate vicinity had grown weaker, some among them breaking down into their base components.

I saw a few of my new slaves running towards the ziggurat, they were self aware enough to know they needed to return to me, and quickly.

I strode outside, my cloak of wraiths keeping me from immediate suspicions, and stalked towards the great blackened gate.

By the time I had managed to cross halfway to my destination most of my slaves fell in behind me. We kept a normal pace, both sides of me agreed that looking like you belonged, and that you knew what you were doing, was more effective than sneaking.

Now that I had necromancers with me I could play the part of mindless slave and waltz right outside.

We had reached the massive black gate, but before we could cross to freedom, a voice called out to us.

"And where do you think you're going?" The voice that met my ears was cultured, smooth, and definitely Elven.

A plague bolt struck one of my servants, who immediately puked out most of his entrails and died.

"Do you think I don't know the exact nature of each of my servants? You're no shade."

I turned to the sight of an elf dressed in magnificent dark robes, A perfect specimen of a being, attractive even for beings of legendary beauty like my people. The pale skin and glowing red eyes that hinted of undeath did little to take away from the man's beauty.

This was an elf who could charm the pants off any being, and knew it too if the roguish smirk on his face said anything about it.

A very real pang of jealousy shot through me, before fear joined it. I knew who this was.

"Dar'Khan Drathir."

The pale elf's smirk grew at my words. "My reputation proceeds me."

As he spoke the undead that were once steadily passing us by to go after the group of Troll's outside began to halt, surrounding us and blocking our escape.

This was not ideal. I couldnt fight a master necromancer, let alone one favored by the Lich King himself. Richard's memory of the game marked him as a low tier boss, but we both personally doubted that actually reflects his ability.

I stepped forward, hoping to use his arrogance to stall for the time to think.

"That it does lord Dar'Khan, the very forests of Eversong echos with the sound of your name. Every living elf knows of the mastermind who brought us so low."

The undead did not surge forward, so I continued.

"Even as someone who hates what you've done, I can't help but respect the kind of intellect all this would take."

His hand began to spark with dark magic.

"Thank you, It does warm the heart to hear such a compliment from an enemy of mine. Tell you what, for the respect you've shown me I'll do you a favor."

I waited for him to answer. Would he let me live at the sacrifice of my allies?

"I'll grant you the boon of dying to me personally, creature." Fuck.

I hesitated for a moment, before stepping forward. "A duel then?"

Dar'Khan laughed at the words. "Something like that."

He stepped forward, into the circle the undead made around us, before he spread his arm's wide. "I'll even give you the first move."

I nearly snarled at the insult, before I composed myself. This was arrogant of him to be certain, but it presented an opportunity to me I would never be able to utilize in any other circumstance.

He was probably aware I was an elf, he was definitely aware I could draw magic from around me. Normally that would be no issue for him. He can do the same after all.

The difference here is that I know he isn't aware of the Wraiths. Clearly the shadows blocking my form from view was dark magic, but any practitioner can do that with the right study.

I had something different.

I had a couple hundred mana batteries directly on my person.

Lightning sparked from my fingertips.

Game on.


	11. Chapter 11

The Carrion lord of Deathholme looked directly to me, smirking as he waited for me to make the first move. The ravening horde of the undead blocking out my exit was the only reason I hadn't already chosen to run.

He was an elf, just like me. He could use the magics of the land around him to fill his reserves, and allow him to overcharge spells without worry of expending all his mana.

My only advantage was the available font of energy, and the particular kind of magic I was choosing to use. The lightning gathering between my fingertips was dark magic, specifically voodoo.

I had found that this form of Voodoo was actually somewhat similar to shamanism, in that you asked the spirits of the land for your power.

The difference with Voodoo used to cast lightning and Shamanism used to cast lightning is that if the spirits refuse to power your ability, you can make them do it anyway. Between that and my own reserves it was stronger than anything else in my arsenal.

It's the only thing that might be enough to get me out of this.

I could make a mental appeal to the local spirits of the dead, and overfill the necessary energy requirements at the same time.

Dar'Khan's brow rose as the lightning grew within my palms, striking the earth around me and scorching already blackened soil.

He did not stop me at that. A mistake.

It was only when the cloak of Wraiths around me started to glow purple as they faded into my body to be absorbed and redistributed into my spell that he started to realize what was going on.

He took a step forward, cursing as magic gathered in his palm's,but it was too late.

By the time he made to stop me I had already absorbed all three hundred wraiths into the spell itself, alongside all the mana I could gather from the land.

His palms rose and I could make out some whispered syllables before I snarled out and released the gathered energy in one of my palms towards my foe.

Purple and blackened electricity surged outward with a audible thrum. It struck with enough force to carve a light trench in the earth between the two of us, and vaporize the undead directly behind Dar'Khan.

I saw the blast strike his position, before a field of sickly green energy rose up to intercept my magic, diverting it around him. A cloud of smoke and ash rose up around us.

I whipped around as the undead began to surge forward, unleashing the energy in my other hand in time to tear an abomination and the dozens of zombies and skeletal forms behind me, clearing a path for me and my slaves to flee.

I wasn't fast enough.

I managed stumble a few exhausted steps forward, and choke out "Run!" before I felt Dar'Khan's retaliation strike me. An impact struck my leg, and it crumbled into a rotten mess before I could take my next step.

I couldn't even feel the pain of the blow, my nerves dying before they could send signals to my mind. Only a growing warmth from where the deathbolt struck me. I glanced back in time to see two more rapidly flying across the battlefield.

It was the only thing that saved my life. My breathing hitched as the first struck my chest and rotted away at my rib-cage.

I began absorbing the mana as best I could before It could do it's worse. The rapidly spreading rot slowed to a more manageable crawl.

I tried to flinch away from the last of them, but a wisp of the blackened energy grazed the side of my face before it passed me by, landing square between the shoulders of one of my necromancers, the man dying with a single ragged cough.

I felt my right eye dissolve into a putrid goo. I screamed out, real pain touching me for the first time, and collapsed as my body gave up on me.

My vision began to darken. Would I die here, so soon after I arrived?

I managed to crawl a few more feet as a number of undead swarmed to my position, only to be warded off by a flurry of Tomahawks.

Dozens of Troll's charged past my damaged frame, taking death-bolts and rusted blades in my place, meeting the hundreds of undead now spewing out from the dark fortress just behind us with the mindless loyalty only found in the magically enslaved.

I grinned from my place on the ground. Not yet it seemed.

"Masta!" I heard a voice call out, it's accent unmistakable. A green hand reached under me, lifting me up and supporting me as we tried to flee. Ti'swena managed to deflect another blast of magic heading our way, throwing lightning back into the smoke.

The furious yells of Dar'Khan Drathir met my ears as we escaped into the dead scar, running across the rotted pathway of the scourge. A necromancer and two of my witchdoctors charged forward with the warriors, halting the hungering horde of monstrosities that now gave chase to us.

A handful of necromancer's and witch-doctors followed us into the darkened wood of the Ghostland's.

Only when the Dead scar was out of sight, and the screaming of my newest enemy faded out of earshot did we halt.

Ti'swena's palms bathed the forest around me in green light as he pressed them into my numb torso. I felt the creeping corruption that I had managed to slow halt in its entirety.

"You're dying masta."

I grinned through bloodied teeth. I was only just managing to rasp out something resembling a response.

"Not yet"

He looked at me desperately. "What do I do?"

"Night Elves, by the riverside."

I grabbed at my personal advisors shoulder.

"Take us there."


	12. Chapter 12

The return trek through the corrupted forest of the Ghostlands was no where near as pleasant as the initial journey was.

Every one of Ti'swena's steps painfully jolted my damaged lungs and rib-cage, whatever mana I managed to absorb from the land dispersed almost as soon as my body took it in. Withdrawal forced my body into a shaking wreck that could barely move on it's own.

We traveled to the river boundary between the Ghostlands and Eversong at an agonizingly slow pace. Without me at the head my favorite troll had taken command, and he saw to guiding us as stealthily as we could through the half rotted foliage towards the encampment of alliance spies that was reporting on the health of the Blood-Elven people.

It took us nearly two days to reach our destination.

Patrols of undead were around every corner, and now that I had embarrassed him in front of his colleagues Dar'Khan would hunt for me endlessly.

We were nearly found several times before we managed to reach a camp by the name of An'owyn . It was inhabited by one of the most hated enemies to my nation.

They were the Night-elves, a cousin race to my people, once our own lowborn subjects. There was a great separation between our people ten thousand years ago, a conflict over magic itself. The lowborn despised the use of the Arcane, and the exploitation of nature. They were a people focused on living in harmony with nature over in command of it.

I was having us go there in search of a practitioner of nature magic. A druid.

It was impossible for the spirits of nature to bond with me as they did a druid, and as such I could not learn their way. But they were powerful casters still, and they had nearly unmatched healing ability. If I managed to pull one under my command I'm certain I can keep alive long enough for a real solution to my issue to be found.

In the mean time I was practically a vegetable, a constant drain on the power of every Witch-doctor present. The healing abilities of my servants were nothing to scoff at, but they were hardly experts in the field.

As it was now I was growing worse. The rot in the remains of my left leg, my ribcage and my right eye was slowly spreading without the constant interference of my servants, halting only during their attempts to restore me.

I refused to have them tend to me as we waited for the opportunity to attack, allowing my servants the chance to rest and be at their top strength for the battle to come, even as my body continued to fail me.

In the game no druids resided with these camps, but I knew there had to be at least a few in the area. A druid was the best scout and spy a Night-elf could ask for. They could become animals, birds, bears and other such beasts.

The kind of things people don't usually assume to be spies. If they respected the strength of the Sin-dorei, than they brought along their strongest assets.

It was only a matter of capturing them.

We took up a position at the top of a hill overlooking the camp, with a collection of dead tree's at it's top.

From my view the camp was a cluster of tents around a magical crystal. From what I could tell they were using the crystal and the ley-line of magical energy it say upon the scry points of interest my people inhabited within and without the Ghostlands.

The scouts and spies quietly went about their business for nearly two hours before I finally saw what we were looking for.

A great White owl flew to the center of the camp, coming to rest at the side of a importantly looking Night-elf wearing the skin of a bear. In an instant it twisted and rose up into the form of a scantily clad female dressed in a mixture of furs and feathers.

She had light purple skin, glowing blue eyes and a beauty I knew i would enjoy once I got my body back in working order. Even from the distance I watched her at I could see a perfectly shaped hourglass form, long legs and a pair of breasts only a Night elf could have.

She was a perfect example of what the humans called the "Bestial" beauty of the Night-Elves.

If I was capable of it I would have led an attack on the place myself at just that moment, gathering a horde of mana wraiths to supplement my servants in battle.

As it was I doubted I could even make one. So I had my slaves continue to rest and gather themselves, before we waited for the already shadowed woods to once again fall into near complete darkness.

When night fell the druid retired early with the leader, the two eagerly grabbing at each other as they entered a large tent. Most of the camp retired sometime after that.

By the time we were sure the rest of the camp had fallen asleep and only the sentries remained conscious the only light was the torches surrounding our target and the soft green glow of corrupted mushrooms littering the ground by our tree's.

The necromancer's stood with me, feeding me dark magic as Ti-swena lead the two remaining Witch-doctors down into the outpost. The Night-Elves are fantastic rangers, matched only by troll's and the Highborne.

A couple of Human Necromancers would only get in the way of thing's. I watched, kneeling on the edge of the hill above them as the trolls moved in perfect and frightening silence, killing a sentry with a thrown tomahawk just as he switched shifts with another of his kind.

The Sentry returning to his tent stopped, his ear twitching, before turning around. One of the Witch-Doctor's beckoned his way, and the Elf froze in place.

He stood frozen even as Ti'swena slit his throat, passing him by. They infiltrated the camp in about forty-five seconds, stalking inward towards the large tent where the Druid and the camp leader slept.

He entered the tent with a ritualistic dagger in one hand, and a Tomahawk in the other, His companions kept watch as he did, killing a passing elf when he drew too close to their position.

Nearly a minute later Tim emerged with newly bloodied weapons, and the unconscious form of the druid under his arm.

They withdrew from the camp as quickly and silently as they came. When they reached our position one of the Trolls hefted me onto his back, and with my prize we made for Sunsail Anchorage.

We laughed as we left earshot. The spies were in for a surprise when they awoke.


	13. Chapter 13

I awoke from a deep sleep as we arrived at Sunsail. The sight was certainly a welcome one after the past couple of days I had.

The pain that came to me with the waking world however, was most unwelcome.

I felt the tingle of healing magic as the Witch-doctor behind us tried to keep me in a somewhat stable condition. It wasn't really working.

The Troll sentries I had guarding the Palisades immediately abandoned their posts to help carry me and the druid into my tower. Ti'swena had kept the Druidess in a magically enforced state of sleep while we traveled. It was possible she would put up a fight when she awoke, and the Ghostlands was not an ideal place to have her restrained.

When we reached the uppermost floating spire of the overlook the necromancers began to pile their stolen knowledge around one of the pillars to the level I had reserved for me personally.

I was placed on a rather large and luxurious pillow as Ti'Swena and another Witch-doctor Channeled both healing magic and raw mana into my form, giving me the strength to move on my own, albeit with some difficulty.

Two of the Amani warriors who had been looking after my makeshift fortress took the Night-Elf and held her up by the shoulders across from me.

One the warriors that restrained her held up a wine bottle with the Amani mixture, and popped the cork on it with a swift movement of his thumb.

When I was certain everyone was ready I signaled Tim to drop the hex, and regretted it almost immediately.

Her eyes opened in an instant, before locking with my own. She snarled something I distantly recognized as the low borne word for "Undead!" and started chanting.

The Trolls at her side where immediately enveloped in burning and blinding light, before the one with the bottle managed to force it into her lips while she was distracted, making sure she was facing me all the while.

Thankfully she didn't connect the dots before it was already too late, spitting out the liquid only after swallowing some on instinct. Her eyes filled with fear, and then complete and utter loyalty.

The Amani warriors released her in an instant, covered in full body burns and still sizzling boils. They writhed on the ground as my healers attentions turned to them.

I tried to shift forward and address the newest piece of my collection of magic users, only to still at the feeling of a thousand small needles digging into my flesh.

A glance down revealed a mess of vines sprouting from what had once been my favorite pillow, and tangled around my body.

A sultry voice graced my ears shortly after. "Oh I'm sorry master! Please forgive me!"

The vines rotted away in an instant, whatever magics forcing their growth withdrawing back into the beauty across from me.

I looked at the rapidly disappearing remains of what very well could have been my death, before looking up with a strained smile at the Night-Elf. I spoke with the strongest voice I could muster, my lungs already so close to failing me completely.

"There is nothing to forgive, Druid. You just didn't understand who owned you yet." It came out rasping and pained.

"Yes, master." She seemed happy to know I didn't mind she was trying to kill me moments before.

"What is your name druid?" She moved towards me, examining my new set of cuts, and giving me a wonderful view of her cleavage as she spoke.

"Nyssa Stormheart, my lord."

I looked up from her breasts. "Nyssa then. I need you to stop the rot spreading through my body, and keep me stable over the next couple of days. Is that a problem?"

Her hands, already glowing with healing magics, lifted the ruins of my tunic. The warmth it sparked in my chest was already a better sign than the Trolls had given me so far.

"I can halt the spread, and even remove the magic behind it, but the rot is already within your heart, lungs. and your eye-socket. " My brow rose at her words.

"At best I can buy you two months." I let out a breath of relief.

I could make do with a week. I looked over to Ti'swena.

"Tim, how long would the ritual we had discussed take?"

My personal adviser looked to a necromancer reading through a book in the corner, who shrugged his shoulder's.

"It be at least four days, masta."

I smirked. More than enough time. "Good."

In the time it had taken to arrive I had been discussing the particulars of my next step to power. With me present I was able to give both parties enough insight into how Necromancy and Voodoo interact for us to come up with a solution.

Thankfully Necromancy and Voodoo weren't so much two sides of the same coin, as they were two iterations of the exact same concept. Voodoo was an older and lesser known form of Necromancy.

"If ya give us da time, we could gather up the right stuff to make it more effi-" I cut him off with a hand wave.

"No. There will be no unnecessary risks without my personal intervention in the matter. If we can make do with what we have on hand, we will."

Sending out my minions now would be far too risky. To lose any of them and the knowledge they hold was too great a loss.

"Just gather all the mana crystals, and ready to utilize them for the ritual."

I was about to dismiss him, before a thought struck me.

"I want as much power as possible to be poured into the mix. The Ranger's are aware enough of the manipulation of raw mana to help you."


	14. Chapter 14

Simplicity has a beauty all its own. I sat hunched inside a ritual circle of mixed necrotic and Voodoo symbols carved into the magically suffused stone of the floating overlook within Sunsail Anchorage.

Around me the necromancers stood, pouring power into the circle and chanting in their Dark language. Behind them, in a triangle around us, the Trolls chanted as well.

From outside the room the Ranger Elves I had captured months ago powered magical circles connected to my own.

I had watched for five days as my minions painstakingly went over every facet of the magic we were now attempting. Overseeing a bastardization of two rituals. There was little else I could do now. I had lost control of my ability to move even with magical aid just yesterday.

Even without the rot the combination of what was already lost within my body and the magical overuse had taken its toll.

As night fell we began our work.

The necromancers where practicing a moderately difficult ritual of conversion. It was a sort of graduation project for most of them, something they had done in the past to prove themselves worthy of the next level of teachings their masters would impart.

It turned the soul of a mortal being into a Specter, or a Banshee. It was originally made to both seal a soul into the living world, and bind it to a particular wizard's will.

The first portion of such a ritual is normally to create the Specter, and trap it within the circle. This portion of my own ritual was largely the same, keeping the soul from departing to the Shadow-lands, and twisting it into a Ghost like apparition.

The only change was the addition of a number of Amani symbols to build a sort of bridge to their part in this, allowing them to take up some of the raw mana cost, and begin their own changes.

The second portion however, was were the real change began. Instead of a ritual of binding to weaken the ghosts will before sending it into a mental battle with the leading practitioner, we had set this one to increase the raw power of the subject soul and leave it's will intact,

This was done with the sacrifice of two lives, in this case Amani warriors.

The final portion was overseen by the Witch-doctors in it's entirety. They had set several totems made from the bones of zombies around the circle, covered in the fresh blood of Trolls who had cut their wrists. This was done to help suffuse the specter with the spirits of the dead sacrificed in the ritual, and to make it more powerful.

I had the rest of my warriors sacrificed at the beginning to fuel such totems, even now I could see their screaming souls, now free of my enslavement, attempting to escape. They whirled around the room in a frenzy, slowly being forced into the totems around me.

Streams of mana trailed into the symbols we had carved into the ground, heating them until they glowed against the night sky.

I felt a tug at my center as my soul began to draw away from my body. If felt as if I was molting, coming out of a shell of skin and flesh. I found myself looking at my own body, falling to its side without a consciousness controlling it.

Streams of dark energy began to trail towards my soul, reaching out and grasping at me roughly, grabbing at me with burning tendrils of shadow. I felt my soul change into an abomination, a crime against the natural order of things.

It was a violation I couldn't even begin to describe. For an instant I was simply an unbound specter, a weak ghost that could attack the physical world, and potentially steal the body of a weak willed individual.

It was like looking at the world through a window, being able to touch it only in the barest sense of the word.

Then the second portion began, and raw magic flowed into me, granting my soul a level of power over the physical world only a scourge enhanced spirit has. I immediately felt as if I had physical presence again.

I was fueled by the magic, given power enough to fight a living being physically if I had to.

I felt like a new man, capable of once again moving without difficulty or pain. I could walk twenty steps without tiring myself out.

Then the final act began. The souls of the Troll's I had enslaved grinded themselves into raw essence, feeding my spirit just as the raw mana from the rangers and necromancer's did.

I felt my own spiritual self change as well, growing with the addition of souls. I could feel magic within me, a raw authority over the physical world.

By the time the chanting stopped and the magical flow slowed to almost nothing I was a new being. A Specter of raw magical strength.

I could cast magic, I could affect the physical world. I could steal away the bodies of all but the most strong willed of beings.

On the spiritual side of things I was now an outlier. A ghost matched only by others hundreds of years my senior, who had had time to grow beyond their natural bounds.

like them I could be overcome, enslaved, and bound to necromancers of enough strength. Unlike them I was not trapped within my own mind, or easily found by those who would see me bound.

I could take the time to learn, to observe, and so long as I had a physical vessel my will could not be stolen away.

The world was my oyster.


	15. Chapter 15

**Ti'swena POV**

Ti'swena watched alongside necromancer and witch-doctor alike as their work completed.

The master's ritual could not have gone better. Working in tandem with the necromancer's in such a manner was nearly unheard of, but it had clearly produced results.

The shadowed creature that his master had become stood within the ritual circle as the last of the power drained into him, it's arms spread outward.

It had the vague form of a thin humanoid, but no distinct features aside from what looked to be two pointed ears, and a body consisting of shadow. Wisps of darkness smoked away from its form.

Two motes of lights opened where the eyes on a living creature where commonly found, one of the lights glowed red, and the other blue.

A voice echoed throughout the chamber, sounding as if it were two beings speaking in tandem.

"Interesting."

Felendren's spectral hand rose to his eyes. The digits flexed experimentally.

"How does it feel masta?" He couldn't help but ask. Few beings had ever willingly turned themselves into such a thing.

It was perhaps the closest thing he would ever see to a beings ascension to becoming a Loa.

The motes of light focused on him.

"It feels... Good. I feel like I could conquer the world. I'm eager to see what I'm capable of."

He could only imagine. If he was lucky enough he may even be able to see it.

"Then it worked as well as I had hoped." He paused, gathering himself.

"What now?"

"We get back to work." The pleased smirk on his master's face couldn't be seen, but he knew it was there.

The specter's arm rose, before the fallen form's of the warriors who had sacrificed themselves, all two dozen of them, began to stand.

One by one the fallen warriors clumsily pulled themselves up from the ground, taking their weapons back up. They rose without ritual, or word. Zombies.

A testiment to the raw power the master could now draw upon. It was possible for any caster to forgo incantation and the practiced movements most spells required, but it wasted a considerable amount of energy.

"You will begin preparing the ships, loading them with all the supplies we have on hand, the food, the water, and the weapons. If you need to use them before we leave, just board the ships. Everything we can fit goes aboard."

The shadow became formless, flowing into one of the human necromancers standing nearby.

The man shook for a moment, before stilling and smirking.

"Once that is finished I want you to keep guard over them and have them ready to set sail at all times."

The necromancer's eyes glowed for a moment.

"It won't be much longer now before my people find themselves supported fully by the Horde, and begin to push the unwelcome out of their land once again."

The human took several calculated steps around the room, stumbling slightly as he found his new center of balance.

"I would see to it we took everything of magical value we could before we made our leave. Tommorow we move to add more magic users to my collection."

The human body hopped a few times in place, before striking with it's fist into the air around it.

"Instructor Antheol is a magister. He teaches a number of students just outside the walls of Silvermoon city. He's the only vulnerable magister there is. If we handle it correctly we can take him and the students with us before retaliation is arranged."

So he had finally decided then? Good. The Elven scouts had been growing more and more aggressive as of late, clearly making the preparations for what they probably hoped was the final push.

The Arcane Guardians that had been steadily streaming from that disgusting Elven city grew in number daily, and they had made considerable progress in clearing out the scourge in the area.

Soon the only remaining beings hoping to take advantage of the land would be the Wretched and the Troll's, both unorganized and cut off from each other. The Trolls due to the damaged but still functioning ward wall, and the wretched do to conflicting interest.

They needed to leave as soon as possible.

He made to do as he was commanded, before he stopped.

"What about your old body?"

The human being puppeted looked to the body on the ground, before he grimaced at the sight.

"Fuck I looked even worse than I thought. Throw it aw-" He froze. "No."

Blackened mist flowed from the necromancers mouth, before it flew into the body of one of the zombie trolls. The body stood straight, moving suddenly with the speed it had in life.

The corpse looked to him, smiling.

"Put it back together, use some of the zombies if you have to. Even a dead vessel could have it's uses."

His master stalked over to the railing of the overlook, leering at the Night-elf and the rangers as they recuperated from the magical strain of feeding the circle.

They ate together at a table below them, talking and laughing as if they didn't hate each other.

In an instant the spirit left the carcass, flowing back into the human he had earlier taken over, who had collapsed after Felendren left his body.

"Send Nyssa and four of the rangers up here in the mean time. It's time for something of a test drive."

Ti'swena smirked at the mans words. "Yes masta."

"And Tim?"

Felendren looked over to him.

"Yes?"

He pointed to the corpse.

"Make sure the hunch is gone. "

"Of Course."

With those parting words Ti'swena gathered the carcass of the being he served, and made off into the rooms below.


	16. Chapter 16

"How does does someone fight a Magister?" I found myself asking that question as I practiced my new abilities.

My people were always masters of magic and the arcane. Instructor Antheol was no different.

The meaty smack of flesh on stone was the only reply. I laughed as I once again struck the magically reinforced stone with the fist of the necromancer I had possessed.

I heard the bones of his hands snap and pop nicely as I kept up a barrage of blows on a singular spot.

I felt the pain sing to me distantly. Spending months in agony, before becoming one of the undead had given me an interesting relationship with pain.

Once I would have done nearly anything to avoid it, but now each of the little jolts going up into the poor man I was controlling's head only really entertained me.

The Elf I was now hunting had achieved the title of a master mage, and was now trusted to teach young Elves on the particulars of magic.

I was determined to bring him into my fold, but I'm also certain this is the most dangerous undertaking I could chose to go through with.

The spot of blood growing on the wall offered no answer. I struck at it anyway.

Antheol was the only magister vulnerable to attack, the only one I could possibly hurt, but only because he was dangerous.

Even in the early days after the scourges assault he taught his students at Still-whisper pond, a small and beautiful little lake, just a mere ten minute walk from the Dead-scar, where hordes of undead battled Arcane guardians to this day.

I can think of one reason and one reason only that my people allowed this. Instructor Antheol was dangerous enough to keep those under his charge safe, even at a time like this.

With the exception of those within the city Antheol was the second most dangerous thing there was to me in these lands. The only thing worse for me to come into contact with would be Dar'khan Drathir himself.

Dar'khan could certainly beat Antheol, but a one on one battle between the two in an even setting could take hours. It would be years before I could approach someone like that confidently and fairly.

A piece of the stone cracked alongside my minions hands.

Not that I had any intention of meeting him fairly. Drathir taught me that lesson and I had still been cheating during the entire "Fight" we had.

No. I needed to figure out a way to bring him onto my side without violence, or to at least steal his texts on the arcane.

I gave the wall another punch for good measure, sending small portions of stone to the ground as my fist withdrew. A glance at "my" hands, and the bloody ruin they now existed as, told me I should probably stop playing with this little toy before I break it.

It was time to reflect on other things.

I withdrew from my puppet, watching as he collapsed on the ground, before gasping out in pain as awareness returned to him, cradling his nearly destroyed hands.

"Get yourself patched up."

"Y-yes my lord."

As a specter I found I could push those I took control of farther than they could take themselves traditionally physically. I could run faster, harder, and longer. I could casually lift weights the victim would need to strain themselves to even move.

The only cost was their body. If I over-pushed them I could tear muscles, break bones, and potentially even push them into death. That was not the only side affect unfortunately.

The power the ritual granted me was great, but it over saturated into the body of those I took over, causing a breakdown If I remained too long. I should have expected something along those lines.

Everything comes at a price was the first lesson every would-be mage learns. Even as a failure Felendren, I knew the truth of this.

This was a price I was all too willing to pay. In less than half a year I had managed to grow to a kind of power it takes some practitioners years to achieve.

If I had to switch bodies a bit more often than I'd like to get the "Living" experience it was no issue. Besides, if I was truly desperate for a permanent residence, my old body should be just fine.

Ti'swena had done his work well. almost surgically handling the process of making my body worth something again. He removed the tumorous growths within my back that had come about from magical overuse, he straightened my spine, made crooked by the growths and my forced stature.

My muscles had been either replaced or repaired with small portions from the zombified trolls, returning my form from a thin and wisp like creature to the muscled and well proportioned shape that magic had once given me.

My leg had been replaced with one from one of the weaker zombified wretched, before my flesh was embalmed, and preserved to prevent the onset of rot and parasites.

At my own personal request my bones were etched in magical symbols of necromancy and voodoo alike, spiritual aids in gathering and storing mana.

Unfortunately while my general shape and maneuverability had been restored, my once bronzed and tan flesh could not be returned. A patchwork of stitching and mismatched skin covered my body now, leaving the impression of the athleticism and beauty I once had only at a distance.

I had bandages wrapped around the flesh to cover the sight. To the untrained eye the body of Felendren the banished had been restored to its past glory, and had been wrapped in bandages to recover from whatever process had given me my body back.

I'm certain the rangers have already reported to their superiors about such a beautiful lie. Elves and wretched alike would hunt everywhere for the criminal who had unlocked the secret to healing our twisted bodies.

Glorious.


	17. Chapter 17

Instructor Antheol was growing worried. He had sent two promising students on a small task to the Village of Fair-breeze. They were to deliver a number of his personal affects to his lodgings in the village.

His students had begged him for the opportunity to go out and see Eversong, to go to the village and handle simple errands for him. After they bugged him for nearly two days he finally relented.

Then they failed to return.

He had been angered at first, at their lateness, Ralen and Meledor where good students, and likely to accomplish his task even if the road proved dangerous, but they had a tendency to play around, especially with one another.

If they hadn't worked so well together in battle he would never have sent them at the same time. At first he had assumed they saw a woman, and like the children they were, panted after her long enough for their instructor to notice.

The little shits always seemed to be looking for their next lay.

He had waited, teaching the other apprentices the basics of the Arcane, expecting them to come back at any moment, sheepishly trying to avoid a taste from his disciplinary rod.

As the hours flew past his anger was replaced by worry. Where were they? Had they been hurt?

With the Scourge around the dead scar thinning out by the day the danger on the roads had been reduced to nothing more than wild beasts and the occasional Wretched bandit.

Things an apprentice, especially two talented ones, could normally face without issue.

When his worry reached it's height he pushed his mana into the scrying orb he carried, locking onto the robes they wore.

On the first day all his students had joined his tutelage he etched some enchantments on the robes they wore to better find his students when they got rambunctious and started to frolic around.

One set of robes was on the road between Fairbreeze and Still-whisper, unmoving, and the other was approaching, but at a slow pace, as if weighed down.

Or Wounded. Antheol felt a cold chill flow through his spine. He turned to his student's, who had been making quite a showing of talent, channeling arcane into fireballs against several dummies he had earlier set up.

"Class is dismissed, return to Silvermoon. I have business to attend to." It would serve no one to have them grow worried, or arrogant. If there was something in these woulds that was a danger to them it was something he needed to investigate thoroughly.

He walked down the road at his words, ignoring his students questions and shooing them away with a gesture. When they were out of sight his casual stride became a sprint.

If his orb was correct Meledor should be only a few moments away!

He ran down the road, his past as a warrior giving him the stamina he needed to keep pace. He ran through the golden path, listening as the enchanted woods around him grew quiter, and the smell of blood struck his nose.

The sight that he was met with made his blood run cold. His student, just a child of eighteen, stumbled, bloody and ragged down the path.

With a small application of mana he blinked across the distance between them, appearing in an instant before his charge.

"Meledor! Are you alright? What happened?"

His student looked up at him with delirious eyes, Fire sparked in the boys hands at his sudden appearance,before it puttered out and he tripped, tumbling forward and into his arms.

"Instructor? Is that you?" His voice was frightened, and delirious.

A glance revealed a massive wound on the boys chest, bleeding out onto his robes. A gash revealing a sizable portion of the child's rib-cage. He grimaced at the sight, gently laying his student on the ground.

"It's me, Meledor, it's alright." He wasn't one for words, but he tried to reassure the boy.

His student relaxed in his arms, going limp as whatever mixture of desperate will to live and adrenaline that had been fueling him began to fade away.

His hands pressed onto his charges wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He began tearing strips off his robes, fastening them around the wound.

He worked to the best of his ability, ignoring his students cries of pain as he did. It would hurt, but It may well save his life.

"It was Felendren. They attacked while we were crossing a bridge, destroying our cart." Meledor wheezed out, before grasping onto his robe.

"The wretched came out of nowhere, stealing whatever was left, we tried to stop them, but as we did one of them began casting at us with strange magics. It was the one who killed those guards, the one on the posters."

Felendren the Banished? So the wretch was still alive. Even worse he was attacking children now? This was unacceptable.

"Ralen?" He feared he already knew the answer to that question.

Tears welled in Meledor's eyes."Felendren did something to him, after Ralen and I tried to fight them back he burned us with some kind of lightning, before dragging him off with the Wretched."

Antheol gritted his teeth. This transgression would not go unanswered. But first...

"Come with me child, we'll see your wounds tended to."

His sanctum in Whisperwind had potions inside that he had for when someone was fool enough to wound themselves. He gathered Meledor up, supporting his weight as they moved down the road.

A torrent of anger filled him as he worked to save his students life. Felendren would be punished.


	18. Chapter 18

The road back to his sanctum was short, but it felt like an eternity. Eight-hundred and fifty years of life, and in all of it he had never felt so much anger.

The undead fought because they had no choice, the trolls because in their backward and savage ways they believed they had a right to this land. A wretched was nothing more than a parasite on society itself.

When their people died, when their home was taken away what remained tried to rebuild what they could, but every step on the road to the recovery of their kingdom was dogged by those trying to feed off of its remains.

Pathetic wretches with no control over their urges, that would harm the few of his people that were left were the worst of the worst.

The wretched stabbed away at their already dying people as they barely held back the tide of the undead.

He had hated the wretched since the first among them emerged, their twisted bodies a perfect represantation of what they were. Vile creatures of no worth.

Now one had harmed one of his students, and kidnapped another. This would not stand.

Meledor helped as much as he was able, but the steps of his student were growing weaker, and he found himself supporting more and more of his weight.

By the time they reached his sanctum Meledor was nothing more than dead weight. The boys breath, once coming out in ragged heaves, grew more and more silent.

He pushed past the protective wards, carrying the boy now.

When they entered his living quarters he hastily placed his charge on his bed, and he ran to his laboratory. He hadn't expected a need for potions like the one he would need for Meledor, but he had many for just such a purpose.

There was a large abundance of potions of all kind within the city, The reduced population allowing for far greater distribution.

He grabbed a large flask filled with glowing red liquid, before teleporting downstairs in a blink.

He paused at the sight of an empty bed, before a whispered "Instructor." caught his ear.

As he turned he was met in an instant with a fist to the face.

The power behind the blow broke his jaw, nearly tearing it from its place on his skull. Antheol managed to let out a wet gag and lift his arms, now sparking with magical flame, before two hands clasped around his wrists.

Immediately he felt his power in the spell draw away, before more was pulled directly from his body. He fought it as soon as it came, dragging his mana back from his captor as he stole it away.

His hands lit up with flame once again.

Through the stars in his vision and the pain he saw Meledor, savagely grinning at him. It struck him in an instant.

Scourge. This was a trap, and he had fallen for it perfectly.

"No incantations for you, magister."

The voice that met his ears was both Meledors, and someone elses. It was too arrogant, too superior.

He pushed the flame onto the creature in a light application of mana, increasing its power as they struggled for control. Meledor's hands began to melt as if made of wax, and the smell of burning flesh met his nose.

They remained like that for a few moments, before the creatures hands tightened its grip, both of them shaking from the strain.

The creature leaned forward as they fought, its grin growing before it erupted into maddened laughter.

His students face began to peel away from the heat as it laughed, the sound taking on a haunting tone

Keeping his concentration on tapping into his foe's mana and maintaining the spell was all he could manage, and it was growing difficult.

He needed to find a way to draw back, regroup. If he had a moment to think, a moment to gather himself he could crush this creature in an instant.

They struggled for what seemed like hours, the undead uncaring of the damage the flames did to its body, and Antheol's experience and knowledge allowing him to keep up his assault.

Eventually the face of his student faded away into a partially blackened skull. It wasn't long before a reddened glow emerged from its eye-socket.

The thing spoke like a child that had grown bored of a toy.

"Enough."

Antheol screamed, his wrists breaking as the monster possessing his student increased the pressure on them.

He felt his mana drain further as his concentration broke, the slight trickle of his power draining away becoming a flood.

He fell to his knees as all but a small portion of his magic drew away into the body of his student.

His arms were released, and he watched as his students body twitched, before stumbling back.

From the bodies mouth a blackened mist emerged, before forming into a vaguely elf-like shape

The body of Meledor straightened in an instant, suddenly moving mechanically forward, a puppet instead of a suit to wear.

The figure kneeled in front of him, reaching into the ruined remains of its robes, and withdrawing a glass vial.

It popped the cork of the vial, before grabbing him roughly by the back of his head.

He could only watch as it forced the vial into the remains of his jaw, and poured the liquid down his throat.

He knew what was coming as soon as the smell of the mixture met his nose. His shoulders slumped as the realization came upon him.

They wanted to steal his will from him.

"You fought well."

His consciousness faded away just as the body of his student forced him to face the darkened visage of a specter, a single tear going down his face.

Master.


	19. Chapter 19

I sighed as I looked at the twisted and burnt remains of Meledors face. It had been a bit of a waste to lose him, but it was worth it.

The zombie he was now was a lot more underwhelming than apprentice mage. It swayed from its place just in front of Antheol, now nothing more than a gofer for me.

Still, I had aquired a magic user who was reasonably close to the same league as Dar'Khan Drathir. A master sorcerer with knowledge nearly unmatched in the arcane.

Even without Antheol, the knowledge in the tomes he kept would be worth the risk I had been forced to take. Both were almost as valuable individually as everything else I had aquired combined.

Antheol knelt, unconscious before me. His wounds taking there toll. A whistle brought out Tim and Nyssa from there hiding places just outside of the wards, and of easy view. I had placed them there on standby in the circumstance I was overpowered and the trap failed.

"Heal him, and then grab every book you can from the sanctum."

Without hesitation a wave of green energy flew out from my druids hands, bathing Antheol in its warmth. I heard the snap of bones realigning themselves, before Antheol stood up, gingerly rubbing his annoyingly perfect jawline.

I sent a wave of arcane energy his way, and with a grateful look he absorbed the magic, before following my other minions lead and overseeing the gathering of his knowledge for transport.

When each of us had an armful of books on different Arcan concepts we trudged our way back to Sunsail, where my forces waited with the addition of a single apprentice in the form of Ralen.

Three troll witch-doctors, nine necromancers, one master mage, and one apprentice mage now existed within the ranks of my "teachers."

They would both tutor me on the particulars to their respective fields, and aid me in the theory of how they intersect. Normally a comprehensive education, even one as imbalanced as the one I was parcing out for myself, would cost thousands of gold.

Not only was I getting it for free, but I was getting it nearly 24/7 and under near constant supervision. Perfect.

With that kind of help it would hopefully accelerate my rate of growth even further. A few more months and I could expand my abilities and my available forces, building a wall around me and those I had enslaved.

It was only a matter of time before I slipped up and someone figured out why these people were following me, if someone hadn't already, and having an army surrounding me as I learned would be a good way of preventing that.

Most preferably, we need a place to hide now that being in Eversong was growing more and more dangerous.

I had an idea for that. It was time to leave.

The trail back was growing darker as night came upon us, and we moved with as much speed as we could muster throughout the golden woods.

When we reached my makeshift fortress we were greeted with the horde of the undead I had put together. It consisted of a group of magically charged and readied zombies, accompanied by a few skeletons made from my body being mummified and improved.

When we returned to Sunsail two of the ships were readied for transport, and I had 6 necromancers and two witch-doctors overseeing the undead on one ship, and the rest of my party settled on the other.

I set fire to the anchorage before we left, leaving nothing for my people to recover or salvage.

On first instinct I wanted to head for Kalimdor, set up shop in one of the many alliance abandoned fortresses, but there were too many risks this early on.

Kalimdor promised a number of warlocks and other dark casters, but it was also a place I was most likely to run into the Darkspear tribe of trolls.

They were allied to the horde, and very familiar with the technique I was using to keep people in line. They would know at a glance what controls my minions, and it would take a fairly simple ritual to steal away all I've gained.

When the time comes, and my current stock has no more use Ill make certain to find the assets in horde territory I was looking for, but for now at least I could not leave the Eastern Kingdoms.

If my minions turn on me now, before I've learned all the can offer me, I'd be slaughtered without a second thought.

So, we set to travel further down the coastline, and make our way to the next resting place I would be overseeing.

It would be several months at sea, but the low numbers of those actually alive on each crew meant we could go quite a while without making landfall.

I was traveling now to access the use of a kind of magic I was now uniquely equipped to learn and use.

Remarkably enough the acquisition of such magic users to teach me the tricks of their trade also presented an opportunity at wealth, and a place to temporarily at least call home.

Our destination would do a fine job of keeping me hidden, of leaving me a mystery.

I would see to it no one knew what I was capable of, until everyone knew what I was capable of.

We traveled now to the human kingdom of Stormwind, a hostile territory, but one unprepared for an enterprising Elf like me.

For now we sailed, avoiding pursuit and the revenge of my people. I would pirate were I could, learn all the magister could offer me in so little time, and most importantly plan for my uncertain future.

We sail now for Westfall.


	20. Chapter 20

Nyssa Stormheart writhed above me, my palms covering her heaving breasts as I pumped into her from my place in the captains quarters in the ship I had stolen.

She moaned as drew myself up from the bed, biting lightly at her nipple.

I had been at sea for a month now, attempting to abosorb as much information as I could from Antheol. He was a good teacher, and a phenominal mage.

When I was studying with Antheol, Tim, and Pharrel, the human necromancer I had first possessed, I tended to use my old body.

The untiring nature of my undead form made it easier to study, and keep my attention on what lessons my minions could impart on me.

When I was at leisure however...

Ralen's body was usually were I found myself. Elves have a lot of uniformity in their forms, and Ralen felt almost like mine did before I gave into the addiction.

I flipped us over, pounding into a now screaming night-elf as her legs wrapped around my waist.

He was a little taller, and the scarring covering his body made it clear his time during the scourge attack had not been pleasant.

He told me the necromancers had captured him for a short while, and attempted to corrupt him into joining the siege as a necromancer.

They tortured him when he didnt.

I felt her nails dig into the flesh of my back, before Nyssa bit into my shoulder, silently screaming as we both climaxed. As it turned out, night elves mated notably rougher than the highborn did.

She was particularly enjoyable. I'm certain Ralen would have appreciated the experience, but it seems those I take control of have little memory of what they've done with me at the wheel.

The poor apprentice would sure have a lot of gaps in his memory when this trip was through.

If I hadn't been learning as much as I had I would find myself locked in my quarters with her at my bedside for the entirety of our journey.

I found that the arcane was a type of magic that easily influenced the other branches, pushing the energy along and mixing with it nicely as it did.

It acted as a sort of pressure valve to the water that was the branches of magic. Pure arcane could do unique things, wonderful things.

But its most interesting power was its influence over every other kind of magic, "evil" or otherwise.

I could use magic of all kind to power arcane abilities, only tainting the magic to the nature of whatever energy I use instead of destroying the spell in its entirety.

I had learned decidedly little offensive applications to the arcane so far, but I had learned how to create wards to protect from scrying, and spellfire.

Most importantly I had began to tap into the many intricacies of creating a magical construct. I was learning of the mana symbols to be used in the creations of the mighty arcane sentries we once used as a light policing force in Silvermoon.

Now we used the constructs for a full supplement to military might. It wouldn't be too long before the armies of the Sin'dorei were just as large as they once were, only now in the form of thousands of stone golems marching to our glory.

I learned the series of imbuements objects needed to undergo in order to eventually be animated and "programed" to obey whatever set of directives their maker installed within them.

In a few months I could probably make a few rudimentary constructs, capable of killing, but unable to adapt to a situation without direct supervision.

Still, it was progress.

However, defending myself from my adversaries, either there scouting or there spells was a matter of importance I would not neglect.

My battle with Drathir flashed in the back of my mind. He had easily diverted the strongest piece of magic I had ever managed to put together.

He had, in a way, taught me a lesson just like my slave often would. Power wasnt everything. technique was worth far more.

I had always known it to be true, but the degree of it was made, truly, horribly obvious to me.

I was taking part in an arms race, and I was dreadfully behind. I could occasionally rest, sup on the pleasures I had gathered for myself. But it would always be haunted by the possibility of defeat, of losing everything I had built.

Westfall would give me time and education I desperately needed. I was eager for my arrival.

Our time at sea had been relatively uneventful, with the exception of a few close calls with the occasional pirate that crossed our path. We hadnt yet been attacked, the pirates allowing us to leave mostly unharmed.

Antheol tells me its because they believe our new state of war with the alliance is giving the pirates the impression leaving sailing warships alone would give them weaker targets, with more loot in the future.

It made some sense, most warships like to loot, and so long as they're victories weren't completely one sided they would make for a weaker target than before.

Gold was universal after all.

I left Ralen's body, taking back to the familiarity of my own. As much as I would enjoy Nyssa, and the rangers during this trip, I had no time.

Magic was there for my taking, and it howled within my soul to be used.

Alongside the chanting of my magic, when I looked up at the sky I could hear something more.

The world was calling to me now.

Who was I to deny my instincts?


	21. Chapter 21

Westfall, once a breadbasket of Stormwind, was nothing more than decayed and yellowed hills of malnourished farmland.

The law said the land belonged to Stormwind, to the alliance, but anyone who came into the place would know who really controls this it.

The Defias. Once an associated group of masons and builders tasked with rebuilding a considerable portion of Stormwind city, they were cheated out of their rightful pay.

Their revenge was quick, and very bloody. Almost overnight the group of builders, tinkerers, and working peasants evolved into a small army of thieves and cutthroats, extorting from the land what coin and wealth they were promised.

With the already stretched thin armies of the alliance the forces sent to combat such individuals were token at best, a small smattering of guards and trained soldiers overseeing a peoples militia.

The farmers were the first to suffer, pushed out of their lands or murdered, there homes and lands now either laying untended, or belonging to the Defias.

Where once farmers tended rolling grassy fields of wheat and barley, now silent towering golems watched over the field, harvesting the grain and slaughtering any who drew too close.

Then the merchants. Each pedllar of good of any kidn found themselves accosted around every corner, and now any who travled Westfall had to pay the Defias toll, in coin, or in blood.

The whole of the alliance knew that now the Defias ruled Westfall.

Renault was enjoying his new life as a bandit. He had just joined in three months ago, and it was the best decision he had ever made.

Not everyone in the Defias was an original member. Lately they had been taking on the desperate, the impoverished, and the greedy.

He was all of the above.

He had never been happier. Sure the work was bloody, and many had their trepidation's about harming those who traveled the roads in search of making their wealth, but it paid well.

Before he had been nothing but a farm boy, and now he was spending his days making more coin than he had ever seen, and his nights with a woman between his sheets.

After all, if your husband cant see you fed, why not find someone else?

There were many wives, daughters and sisters to dead farmers in the Dead mines beneath the town of Moonbrook, each more than willing to attach themselves to the only men who could keep them safe and fed in Westfall.

He had been patrolling through the small farming village, waiting for his friend to finish his piss when something in the air changed. The smell of rot hit his nose.

Not altogether worrying, there were plenty of bodies that needed to be disposed of, it was possibly some had been missed.

What was worrying was the silence. The night, once filled with the chirping of insects, had gone quiet.

"Gardel, you hear anything?" Gardel was a drunk and a slob, but he was a good sword to have at your side.

They had raided a few caravans together, and they worked well in each others presence. The leadership often saw to it they were posted together.

He had been drinking too much, and like the nervous bitch he was he demanded Renault let him have some privacy.

"Its gotten a bit quiet." Gardel called back from over his shoulder.

"You think we should tell the boss?"

Renault scoffed. "Tell im what, that it got a bit quiet and its giving us a bit of the willies?"

"We'll be fine, just finish up back there."

Gardel laughed back "Alright, alright, light be damned your su-"

A wet snap echoed across the night. Renault turned to the stable Gardel had been using as a privy.

An elf covered in bandages was cradling Gardel's head in his hands. Renualt opened his mouth to yell out, before the skull flew across the space between them, breaking his nose.

Renault grabbed at his face, feeling the blood poor down his face.

He looked back up, his hand on the haft of his sword, only for the elves hands to wrap around his throat.

He managed to get a look at one glowing blue eye, before blackened smoke poured from the creatures mouth, and into his own.

Renault stumbled back, his mind smothered by that of a specter.

"You need a bath, badly."

The body of Renault took a few awkward steps forward, before hopping in place.

When it stepped forward again it was with almost unnatural grace and fluidity.

Renault sauntered towards the largest building in the village, passing by several bandits near the entrance to their hideout.

He grinned to his fellows as he walked past them, into the depths of the Dead-mines. A massive mining network that had once been the source of a third of the gold in the kingdom of Stormwind.

It had long since been all but consumed and abandoned, and it was now a underground fortress under the control of the most dangerous rebels in human territory.

Renault made to walk past the first line of sentries, guarding the entrance to their home, before one of the men stepped in front of him.

"Renault, right? The fuck happened to your nose?"

His head tilted for a moment, before Renault laughed. "It's nothing, Gardel got one of his knives stuck in the side of a house, and when he tried to pull it out he bashed me in the nose."

His hand gingerly touched the bloody mess. "Fucker broke it, I'm heading back to the ship to see if I can get a potion, or at least some cloth."

The sentry shook his head. "Potions are expensive man, they ll take it out of your share if you grab one."

Renault's shoulders dropped, before he smiled. "Well I guess I might not then. Besides, it adds character, right?"

"Suppose it does!" The sentry said with a laugh and a pat on the back, letting the man pass.

"Better be quick, one of the captains'll tell the boss if you've been slacking."

Renault looked back at the sentry, a smirk growing on his face.

"I'm sure he wont mind, If I bring him a drink."


	22. Chapter 22

Human territory was refreshing. In Eversong you could feel the magic in the air, and none could deny the ethereal beauty of my homeland.

But it was, in a way, a reflection of what my people had always been before the undead attacked us. Unchanging.

My people had lived in the same land, practiced the same magic, and enjoyed the same pleasures of thousands of years now. It was wonderful, beautiful, and incredibly boring.

Westfall was an obviously poorly cared for territory, nearly empty of any and all civilized life. The bandits wandered the roads, hunting for travelers and trespassers.

Hulking Mechanical golems tended to what fields the Defias decided were worth keeping active.

The only people who tried to combat the status-quo where a couple dozen guards from Stormwind, and a peoples militia made up of the angry remains of this provinces farmers.

In a way it was in a worse situation than my home ever was. The Blood-Elves were even more thinly stretched than the humans had ever been, and yet they were already retaking the lands they had lost control of.

I wouldnt be surprised if the undead had been pushed back into the Ghostlands by now. Give or take a few months and they would probably pave a road over the dead scar once they figured out the land itself would never heal.

The farmers and people of the land here had been all but abandoned by Stormwind, and they knew it too.

Oh sure the kingdom may claim the situation was beyond its ability to fix with the forces it has to spare, but whos fault was that?

The Horde was a threat, but a simple non-aggression pact would free up plenty of the necessary forces to fight the demons trying to get through the Dark-Portal, and to clear out the bandits in an important agricultural center.

The Orcs aren't usually so subtle as to say anything more than "no." and with the right emphasis on honor it would be easy enough to convince them to ease up on several war-fronts.

There always comes a time where you need to realize its time to regroup, and lick your wounds.

Then again, maybe the Prestor family had something to do with that. If I remembered right, around now several dragons were picking away at the primary human kingdom of the Alliance.

All of them disguised as well meaning members of the nobility.

Either way, I was taking advantage.

I had come here for peace and quiet, an opportunity to give myself a firmer understanding to the basics of each field of magic I had available to me.

If I strengthened my knowledge of the basics in every field, I could begin to work into the combination of their more complicated uses.

To do that I needed time, and most importantly anonymity. A giant underground mine would do nicely.

The shit-load of gold, magic users, and Goblin engineers inside, were only icing on the cake.

So here I was, stalking through the torch-lit halls of my soon to be home. I was taking my time in my approach to this ship in an effort to consider what needed to be done.

I could give VanCleef, the head of this operation, the mixture and take control as the power behind the throne, and experiment with my magic as an "adviser." but dark magic was frowned upon even by bandits.

I could try and feed the entirety of the syndicate my elixir over a few months, but that was an expenditure of resources I would not easily replenish.

We had enough of the mixture for a couple hundred people if we were smart about it, but the land around here was not suited to the necessary herbs to make it.

Which left me with my third and only real option. Cherry picking.

I had brought a couple dozen water-proof vials of the mixture with me in a sack, just enough for me to persuade a number of the Blood-mages, and the Goblin Engineers who managed the Golems.

I had left the rest on the ship, which now lay just past the horizon, invisible to the naked eye, to make landfall at the dawn of tomorrow. I told them to find the large walled off cove in the waters of Stranglethorn

With my undead body it was an easy swim to the shoreline, and in just under an hour I managed to breach the surface with only a small village of now dead murloc's to witness my arrival.

I was in a good position to take power in this place tonight.

Part of me wanted to wait, to settle for VanCleef and take it slow, but the more time I wasted the more likely it was people would notice what I had done. Magic was not subtle.

At least when it came to the kind that turns people into slaves. Whole kingdoms have fallen to that in the past, and bandits aren't so stupid as to blindly trust the suspicious Elven mage their leader is now treating like a king.

I would be a new factor to the common men, another suspicious party to watch.

If the way they were looking at the other magic users was any indication, I would be very closely watched indeed.

They did have the services of Blood-mages,, but it was easy to tell they weren't welcome.

At a glance it seemed the Blood-mages weren't trusted implicitly by the rest. Most of the robed men and women found themselves in almost entirely separate groups.

It made sense, while it was in more of a gray area than some types of magic, the things a blood mage is capable of are never pretty.

It drew its roots back to one of the darker subsections of Voodoo, and even the Amani were wary of it.

It was the magic of sacrifice. Power gained at the cost and manipulation of blood. Self sacrifice was one of its strongest forms.

A mage who taps into his own lifeblood could raze a city under the right circumstances, if at the cost of his life.

As a specter I had alot to gain from insight into that school of magic, perhaps more than any other could offer me.

I needed that kind of power.

It was time to make my move.


	23. Chapter 23

The ship in Ironclad cove was the culmination of the Defias efforts. It was a massive warship completely decked in the finest canons that could be bought, stolen or otherwise aquired.

From the faded Markings and the sheer size of the Vessel It seemed to be an originally Ogre vessel. Its primary Cannon was mounted on the front of the ship.

Considering the hatred the Defias had for Stormwind, it was likely to one day shell the city. It currently held around a Hundred workers all dedicating to restoring it to working condition, and upgrading it with more modern weaponry.

The leadership of the Defias Brotherhood exclusively resided on the vessel, including one Edwin VanCleef, the man I was after.

In my current skin it was easy to stroll past the workers and guard. Few asked what I was up to, and the same excuse I gave to the sentry.

I broke my nose, and needed a potion. They were expensive, and bandits didnt like to share.

Not much of a guess to assume most of it was kept on the vessel.

I stepped on the ship from a walkway of wood placed and connected to a small island in the cove. I passed several men and women working on moving a canon into place with a pulley and some rope.

I smiled as I walked past, the rope snapping with a small application of fire magic. In an instant the canon fell, crushing two men before plunging it into the water below.

Immediately people began to gather around, working to help where they could, and ignoring me as I passed them by up the walkway to the uppermost portion of the ship.

Who I assumed from his garb to be Edwin VanCleef was facing away from me, cursing as he looked at the damage below. He was alone.

I paused just behind him. The game had Vancleef as a low tier boss to a dungeon, even more dangerous than the lord of Deathholme was.

Somehow I doubted that to be true. Balancing doesnt exist in the real world. VanCleef got this far because he was clever, not because he was a certain level.

It was the same way I doubted every threat that emerged to the world carried a higher level of danger. The Panda people on a currently uncharted island did not have warriors that could go out and one shot Arthas.

With that truth in mind I called out to my prey.

"Edwin VanCleef."

The lord of the Defias turned back to me, a sneer on his face.

"What the fuck do you want boy, can't you see I-"' my hand shot out to his throat, crushing his airway.

I lifted him in the air for a moment, taking a little pleasure from the fear I could see growing in his eyes.

A knife found its way in my throat. I felt the body I was inhabiting begin to fail as poison rushed through its veins.

I smirked through the tickling pain at the man, before I left the random thugs body, and pushed into VanCleef's own.

I hadnt expected a fight.

It seems the man is an outlier.

The mans mind, even unprepared and untrained. pulled me into a struggle of will. He had the advantage of defending his own body, and sheer desperation.

I would have found myself trapped in the mans head, forced to watch as he went about his business for however long it took him to die, if I werent an outlier myself.

I had the strength of around five average specters behind me, and my own will was nothing to spit at either. If I didnt need us to be silent, to not attract the attention of the crew, I would have managed it with far less of a fight.

As it was we struggled for a couple minutes, stumbling about the ship, and twice the man almost managed to call out for help, only to sputter as I re-seized control of his vocal cords.

I managed to force us to stumble into the captains quarters, before I began to work in ernest. The bandit lord howled as I forced his mind down into his subconscious.

A man burst through the doors to my new quarters. "Boss! Theres a dead man outside, are you alright?"

I shook my head, clearing out the last of Edwins struggles. "No, Theres been an attempt on my life."

"What do you want to do?" The bandit had an angry look on his face. The people around here considered VanCleef their savior.

I stalked over to the man, grabbing a fistful of his tunic. "I can't have anyone know whats happened, but I have an idea of who might have tried to put me down."

I let go of the man, before I looked around warily.

"Bring me a bottle of wine, and tell no-one of what you've seen. I need to talk personally with every suspect."

The bandit seemed confused, but didn't argue. "Of course sir."

"Make a list of every one of those wizards, and every goblin Engineer we have. Once that's finished, give it to me."

I leaned in, whispering now.

"Don't give them any hints I might suspect whats going on, their just having a drink with the captain, discussing the future."

The man nodded seriously.

I looked behind me, to a large desk covered in papers, before I walked over and sat down.

"It'll be a long night. But I'll talk to every suspect. Share a bit of a drink, and come tomorrow we'll know who's with us, and who isn't."

"And what of the body?"

"Leave it with me, I'll make an example of it"


	24. Chapter 24

It took nearly two hours to speak with every one of my targets. The apprentice mages held little insight into the nature of the tome they had stolen.

On the bright side I could find out myself. It was like seeing your christmas gifts under the tree and trying to guess what they were based on the general shape.

The goblins were greedy little shits from the moment they stepped into my door, without exception. They were not original Defias members, practically mercenaries taking advantage of the incredible wealth the bandits had managed to acquire.

Considering what they were asking me to pay before I had them drink it had to be.

With my new servants added to my collection I decided it was time to handle the rest of the chaff. It was time to test an idea Antheol had given me.

I grabbed the now headless carcass of the man I had possessed, dragging him with me as I readied for my plan.

I stepped outside and onto the deck of my ship before I walked to the edge, kicking the body over and letting it crash down into the work space of the lower section. It struck the wood with a loud crack, interupting the workers as they went about their business.

"Theres been an attempt on my life. Everyone is to gather in the cove in exactly two hours."

I waited for a moment, looking them all over. before snarling "Get back to work!"

They scattered, setting back to whatever their respective jobs where.

I stomped to a nervous but well dressed looking goblin, the only boss I remembered the name of. "Captain Greenskin?"

The reply was something I'd expect from a smoker over a small green man. "Yes boss?" Scratchy and relatively deep.

I grinned at him. "The guards in Moonbrook let an an assassin disguise himself and make an attempt at my life, meaning they're either incompetent, or traitors."

His hand fell on his sword. "I'll take some boys up there and get rid of em."

He motioned to a couple of men with swords nearby, taking them with him as he made for the surface.

"Make sure to bring whats left to me."

I need supplies to put this together, and the forward guard had been incompetent. Poor them.

While Greenskin readied my reagents I moved to one of the Bloodmages, pushing him towards the rest of the people in his circle. "Get me the book, and any ink you have."

He stumbled off hastily, running to see my will done.

I had two hours to prep the cove before the Defias gathered nearly in their entirety.

With that in mind I scoped out a couple of locations for focal points to the ritual I was planning.

The primary focal point would be the center island, the largest of the cluster of small islands leading to my ships and the one I would have them gather on.

The other points would be on the other islands, the ship and near the entrance.

When the mages returned with the book and the ink I set them to drawing the lines I had in mind. When they where finished the lines would make several interconnected ritual circles.

I stuffed the tome into my shirt for safekeeping.

By the time Captain Greenskin returned, his men lugging two dozen bodies belonging to members of the forward guard, the mages had nearly finished the circles.

They were used to taking orders regarding rituals, and quickly followed my commands to the letter. At a glance it was done perfectly.

"The examples, sir."

I clapped him on the back. "Very good captain, very good."

I pulled VanCleef's sword from my hip, looking to the confused men around me. "I'm a man who likes to do his own work. Anyone who betrays us deserves their head on a spike.

With that, i chopped the head off one of the corpses. I looked to one of the men whos face was beginning to turn a little green at my actions. "Go get me some of the harpoons."

I would have asked for spears, but I could see a Harpoon rack a couple yards behind us. He stumbled off, hurling into the cove for a bit.

I shook my head as I got back to work. He would get them.

* * *

I was a little late on my timeframe, wrapping my work up about five minutes after everyone had arrived. Giving them plenty of time to awkwardly stare at me holding a human head and carving symbols into it.

Everyone except those I had dosed with the Amani mixture stood within the circles I had created, gathered around several heads mounted on the harpoons.

I carved each head with several arcane symbols, each dedicated to the storage of arcane energy, and a couple of voodoo symbols alongside them expanded their horizons a bit.

Fear of what I would do held them back for a while, before one of them finally mustered the courage to speak.

"S-sir, I understand the need to make an example of traitors and all-" He gestured to the ritual circle around him and his friends. "-but why all this."

I shushed him. "You'll understand soon enough, boy. Just step back in line, I'm about to start."

I stood up from the ground, before I mounted the final head on a harpoon impaled into the ground, just over the final focal point.

The other heads stared at the one in the center from their places in the cove.

When I turned around I had what I hoped was a welcoming smile on my face.

"Some of you are probably wondering why you're all gathered here today. Why I went through all this effort just to make an example."

Smoke poured from VanCleef's mouth, and the markings on the floor lit up with a harrowing bright green glow as I sent a spark of necrotic magic into the center circle.

I emerged to the sound of screams and pain as the ritual began.

**"Its because there's been a change in management."**

I watched as ominous chanting filled the room, seemingly from no-where. The light produced from the symbols grew brighter and brighter as the life force, and souls of every man and woman inside the circles began to drain away into the makeshift totems.

I watched as the people desperately tried to claw away at the invisible barrier between them and freedom, their bodies wasting away in mere moments.

I watched as the their howls reached a crescendo, before falling into the echoing moans of the undead.

By the time dawn broke, and my ships waited just outside the cove, Hundreds of zombies waited inside the ritual circles, their eyes glowing the same shade of bright green.

They all surrounded several glowing totems, each containing the power I had just stolen.

Perfect.


	25. Chapter 25

When the massive reinforced wooden doors opened on the next morning I had my other two ships settle into the makeshift docks of Ironclad cove.

I decided to have all the living servants under my command take up residence in the Defias ship. It was, after all, the most secure place in the Deadmines.

The zombies on the ships, and the ones I had just aquired were both made to hide in the murky waters of the cove. In part it was to increase the security of the cove itself, and in part it was to clear room for the more acceptable servants in my employ.

The time may come when people visit this cove now that Ive cleared out the bandits, and zombies were far from inviting.

The totems I just created were magical batteries of a sort, similar in a way to the ziggurat I had disrupted before I left Deathholme.

They existed both as a means to power the zombies nearby without me actively channeling into them, and also as emergency sources of energy for spells and rituals.

Once everything was settled, i doled out the first of my orders. The Goblin Engineers quickly returned to their workshop with orders to return to the constuction of more Harvest Golems.

I had one of the Goblins take up the task of pulling the Harvest Golems on the Surface back into the Deadmines with whatever they had managed to harvest so far.

I needed defenders more than I needed farmers. Antheol and the bloodmages could conjure enough food for the rest of us if the Defias supplies ran out.

I had Vancleef himself eaten by the zombies of his old crew. On the surface of the cove the Arcane-wraiths floated over the water, using the relatively free space to add to my defences.

When I had guests over I could have them cluster together in the shadows., making them all but impossible to see.

I had plans for the Deadmines themselves as well, but I would need more time to see them underway. Under Defias control it was a fortress the couple hundred members overseeing its defense could hold off thousands, easily collapsing caves should the Alliance ever reach too far.

With me in control It would be all but impregnable.

Of course the location and servants werent all I had just won with that ritual. The Defias had enough supplies to feed everyone of their members for years. They had several naturally cold rooms filled with grain and sailed meat.

They had enough cannons and gun powder for a small navy, and enough steel to arm the men manning it.

Most importantly, The Defias had gold. Westfall is still today a safer route for merchants to travel than the neighboring province of duskwood, filled with undead and feral Worgen.

Symptoms of a curse from an ancient lowborne weapon, though the humans didn't know that.

A scythe crafted from the staff of Elune herself, and the tooth of a wolf deity. Apparently it was somewhere in those woods. If Its still there, I'll be looking into it.

The kind of power that scythe held was legend on par with something like Frostmourne. Of course, as it was now it held little use to me.

If one didnt understand balance fully and completely, the scythe would consume you. It was made for druids, but if I got there first I might eventually find a way to get it to my way of thinking.

Everything can be corrupted. That scythe was no different.

Still, Merchants had little interest in why the curse came about, but they did know Duskwood was a death sentence for most.

It was easier to pay bandits off then fight the products of the Curse Of Elune off.

Inside the ship was a treasury filled to the brim with gold and glittering gems. The wealth gathered from fifteen years of thievery, and fifteen years of taking advantage of abandoned, but not dry, mines.

Westfall wasn't rich back in the day just because of their fertile fields. It had once accounted for at least a fifth of Stormwinds gold before the second war and the Defias. There were three mines aside from the one I now resided in within westfall, all still had gold.

They probably werent as lucrative as they were back in the day, but I knew they still held gold within.

Whatever was left of the Defias was either working within those mines, or currently lay in ambush for passing merchants.

The amount of gold I had on hand was enough to buy-out a medium sized kingdom outright.

I planned on using it well.

When I returned to my new quarters on the Defias Vessel began to plan out the possible ways I could handle my new posistion in Westfall.

The Defias were the almost undisputed rulers of the whole province, and I had all but destroyed them in one fell swoop.

The Alliance would surely want it back, and that would provide a somewhat managable state of affairs so long as I possessed the right people, but it felt almost like a waste to do so.

I could start releasing the zombies into the wild, they required very little in the way of magic to maintain, and with the right use of rituals I could have thousands of them swarming the country side before anyone knew what was going on.

It would keep the Alliance distracted to be certain, but zombies alone werent actually as much as a threat to Stormwind as the Defias were.

Not to mention the dual attentions of the Scourge, and the Alliance that would suddenly be on the place.

That left an option I hadn't wanted to consider this soon.

Conquest.


	26. Chapter 26

This would have to be done cleverly. I couldnt just start bringing my servants with me, I just secured this place to avoid that. However, the benefits to doing this could be useful.

Westfall and its surrounding territories are very poor, but have incredible potential for growth under the right circumstances.

Its connected to Duskwood, Stranglethorn Vale, and Elywnn forest. All either ripe for conquest, or exploitation.

I could have a whole country dedicated to furthering my power.

With the distracted Stormwind at its flank no real aggressors will come about until the war slows down, which means I would have plenty of time to build the broken land into something more useful to me.

I didnt yet have the kind of magic to manage a full defense from any of the real powers on this rock, but my wealth and their distraction could prove an apt opportunity.

If I had something to lose in the gamble I might have considered a different option, but as it was I saw no reason not to.

If I failed to take control, the alliance would take over and I could simply buy Moonbrook as a wealthy merchant. Stormwind would happily accept the money of someone who wants to pay a stupid sum for a largely useless town with a bad reputation.

I stepped outside of my quarters wearing my original body, clothed in a tailored silk vest and black pants. VanCleef's personal wear.

"Get a cart together, and bring me mister Flint. We have work to do."

* * *

Sentinel hill was the last bastion of hope for westfall. In the wake of Stormwind's inaction the people had gathered what strength they could to push the bandits out themselves.

With the help of a smattering of guards hundreds of those hurt by the Defias onslaught gathered. A thousand strong force of those who had lost their homes and families to bandits claiming they were right to do what they had done.

They all gathered inside an old but stalwart fortress, its walls partially sorrounding a hill with a lone tower atop it.

Its people were somber and poor, hoping against hope some passing mercenaries or adventurers would be kind enough to free them of their aggressors without pay.

The sight of a cart being pulled, with a lone figure leading it would usually be one of joy, a testament that Westfall was still a place people traveled, even in times like these, if not for one factor.

The cart they could see in the distance was approaching from the road that lead in the direction of the town of Moonbrook, and the heart of Defias territory.

Noone but bandits traveled that road anymore, and someone approaching from their could mean only the Defias was approaching them now.

The guards rang the warning bell, and word quickly spread to the inhabitants of the Fortress, many gathered, preparing weapons for whatever may come for them.

Over the years the Defias had grown confident, the inaction of Stormwind giving them the courage to attack directly. Hundreds had been lost over the years as the Defias attacked them directly.

The figure that approached the gate wore a dark cloak, and the beings pulling the cart behind him wore the garb of the organisation that had plagued their land for fifteen years.

The cart stopped just outside the gate, its contents hidden in tied bags.

"People of Sentinel hill!" The figure called, his voice hoarse. "I have come to you to submit myself to your judgment!"

The man pulled back the hood of his robe. His face was pale and his eyes were darkened by lack of sleep.

"I have come to confess my crimes to my people!"

With a flourish the man pulled his cloak aside, revealing a head strapped to his belt.

"And I have come to tell my brothers and sisters they are free!"

The man held up the severed head, its face covered in the infamous red bandanna of the Defias.

"Open the gates, I have with me no weapons, and I bare no ill-will to the last defenders of my homeland."

There was a pause as the guards spoke with one another, before the great wooden doors of the gate swung backward, men pulling them back to allow the traveler inside.

The figure stepped forward, the men dragging the cart following behind him as defenders surrounded him, weapons drawn. The crowd was a mixed group of men dressed in full plate, wearing the colors of Stormwind, and peasants wearing chain-mail.

A few men approached to relieve the procession of weapons, before stumbling back with screams at the sight before them. "Scourge! Necromancer!" they called out, eyes wide with terror, quickly the crowd drew forward, only stopping as the man tossed the Defias head at their feet.

"Undead. I do not serve the Scourge any longer!" With a snap of the mans fingers, the zombies pulling the cart collapsed as the magic left them. "And I ask only that you hear my words before you take my life."

The figure gathered himself for a moment once it was clear the crowd would not attack just yet, before he began to speak.

"Once, I was one of you. My father tended to his farm just a short ten miles from this very fortress, fifteen years ago. We weren't wealthy and we did not have much land, but our farm was enough to provide for my family."

The man looked around, hopefully, as peoples weapons lowered and the hate and fear began to fade from their eyes.

"We were happy, content with what life was for us. Even when the Defias began their reign of terror over this land we stayed strong. We kept to our farm and waited for help to arrive even as our neighbors were killed or worse."

The man gritted his teeth, anger and frustration clear for all to see. The crowd began to grow as the man spoke, as more and more people gathered to listen to the necromancer's story.

"We waited for five years before the Defias came for us too. They butchered my father in his sleep. They raped my mother before my very eyes. I managed to escape before they could take my life. I was lucky enough to grab my fathers hidden wealth as I left, and left to make a better life for myself."

A haunted look grew in the mans eyes now, remembering horrors long past. "I couldn't bear the thought of staying in Stormwind after they abandoned us, so I fled to Lordaeron. My journey was long, but the thought of a place that wasn't a constant reminder of those who failed to defend my family gave me the strength to travel onward."

The man laughed, but it was hollow, empty. "It was a mistake. I arrived in time to see the land grow sickly, to watch the sky turn a plagued yellow. I witnessed an ever hungering army of monstrous undead consume all in its path."

"When the necromancers passed the wreckage of a cart I was traveling I pledged to serve them in return for my life, and knowledge of their craft. I was beaten, but allowed to travel with them to where they taught those who would create the armies of the dead."

The mans head bowed. "Scholomance." When he looked up it was with steel in his eyes. "I did terrible things in the name of my survival, I learned some of the Vilest magic there is, and when I grew strong enough, I escaped."

"I escaped and I made my way back, not stopping once in my travels. I passed beautiful pastures, and the shining city of Stormwind, where merchants plied their trade and warriors aplenty defended a people who knew they would be protected to the bitter end."

The man looked around the crowd, making eye contact with those around him. The crowd, once a mob eager to see his head on a spike, now looked back at him, eagerly awaiting his next words, knowing already what he would say, and hating it.

"I returned, certain it would be to a land finally saved from the bandits that had torn it apart. I returned expecting rolling green hills, just as beautiful as the day I left." The man gestured to the land around them, the yellowed grass and empty farmsteads.

"Instead I found a people not just neglected, but abandoned. I found a single fortress manned by a couple hundred desperate men and women trying their damnedest to protect a territory the size of a country!" Scattered yells joined his words.

"I had come here in hopes of taking up my fathers ways, in hopes of finding some way of redeeming myself for the evil I've done. It took only one look at this land for me give up on redemption for my sins."

The man growled now at the crowd, a righteous anger in him that they all shared. "I went to Moonbrook, where once my aunt and her children resided, where my father traded his goods. I went into that ruin of a town, knowing already what awaited me."

The mans hand rose, and shadowed flame flickered between his fingers. "With the magics I swore to myself I would never use again I attacked, I killed men and rose them as tools. I delved deep into the depths of that mine, and I slaughtered every man that dared to wear that mask!"

Stunned silence met his words. Could it be true?

He grabbed at one of the bags within the cart, tossing it to the earth. Gold, more than any of them had ever seen spilled from it.

"I found Edwin VanCleef, and as a gift to all of you I bring his head, and all the wealth he had ever stolen from us!" Cheers erupted around him, the sound of people realizing they were finally free.

The man picked up another bag, the coins clinking for all to hear."Fifteen years of stolen wealth, returned to the people."

For a moment the crowd roared so loud one would think ten times the number had gathered. "Fifteen years of wealth to be taxed away, and stolen by those who abandoned us."

They quieted in an instant. Anger growing as the truth fell upon them. ""For the war." They would say, before they stole every last coin."

The man looked around once more, meeting the eyes of people he had saved. "Arrest me if you will, kill me if you must, but I ask that you do it now. I ask that you do it not as members of the Alliance, not as citizens of the kingdom of Stormwind."

The man looked to those wearing Stormwind tabards and full plate, the men looking away in shame."I ask that you judge me as the people of Westfall."

The man held his arms out for all to see. "I am a necromancer. I am a murderer. But I am of Westfall, and I will not be judged by Stormwind any longer."

"If my people want me to die as a criminal, as a murderer for what I've done, I will accept it gladly. But I would have each and everyone of you know that if I am to live, my powers, evil though they may be, will be used to take this land back."

The mans arms spread, his voice reaching above the crowd, now the full garrison of Sentinel hill.

"My name Is Marcus of MoonBrook. Who stands with me!?"

A much longer chapter than I usually go for, but one I felt was necessary.


	27. Chapter 27

The garrison cheered at my words. Chanting they stood with Marcus Moonbrook. I grinned.

There was no question in my ability to get these people to rebel. The hard part was finding a way to get them to accept a practitioner of dark magics as their leader.

Then it came to me. Brotherhood. These people were nothing if not closely knit. If I established myself as both one of them, and the person who killed of VanCleef, there was no sin too great for me to commit.

An elven dark mage they would be grateful towards, but forever suspicious of. A dark mage from Westfall however? They would worship. And worship they did.

Even now they tossed the standard of Stormwind at my feet, chanting the name I had chosen. I always liked Marcus. It had a kingly feel to it, and Rick's presence had given me a bit of a bias toward human naming convention.

I watched as soldiers sworn to king Varian Wrynn tore the tabards from their chest's before tossing them alongside the flags that were even now being taken down.

The soldiers weren't from Westfall, but they had done what they could to save it for more than a decade now. They were just as much people of this land as any other was.

For better or worse Westfall stood alone now. The people had spoken.

They probably wouldnt accept me as king, not yet, but they would listen to me before anyone else. It was a start.

When the crowd died down enough for me to be heard I spoke.

"It seems you would have me then. Its time we decided how to pull this land together." I gestured to the Tower looming over the fortress.

With the majority of the men in full plate armor I strode to the closest thing this place had for a command post like I owned the place. Soon I would.

It wasn't long before I sat at a table with a map of Westfall strewn over it, discussing the next move of our people. The leader of the garrison, Gryan Stoutmantel stood across from me.

I hadn't known a paladin was the one responsible for assembling the peoples militia, but it seemed the peoples discontent was shared with him.

Luckily enough my story hit home with him, or this body might not have survived the fort for very long.

He looked to me seriously, years of military experience and his time as the only leader to the citizens of Westfall showing clear as day. "The gold you brought to us, and the purge of the Deadmines puts Westfall in a better position than its been in for years, but as I'm sure your aware our problems haven't yet ended."

I nodded, allowing him to continue.

"There are still many Bandits wandering the country side, robbing and pillaging even now. Rumor has it they even have presence in the abandoned mines. Some may leave the country once they realize whats happened, but many will stay and try to reestablish themselves."

He was right, hell, many of them might even try and go back into the Deadmines. Not that that was an issue. They walk into my house they wont be a problem long.

"Even without them, Gnoll warbands have been killing whatever happens to be left. Most of them have taken to using the land as their new territory since it's without concentrated defenders"

That was an issue I hadnt considered. Gnolls were a vicious and numerous race of hyena men. The only reason they didn't exist as a world wide threat was an incredible lack of unity.

A Gnoll would fight to the death with another over the size of its shadow. They traveled in packs led by the most brutal of their kind. They would need to be pushed out for anything to get done around here.

Fortunately most packs wouldn't have numbers larger than fifty at a time unless a particularly vicious leader came about.

"We can handle this if we do it right. Once the land is cleared of the worst of it we can start to rebuild, and that wealth is more than enough if we use it right."

It was a considerable amount of gold. Nearly a tenth of what my actual treasury held. The Defias had more than made up for any money Stormwind had once denied them.

Probably by a hundred fold at this point. Whatever talk of being cheated was mostly propaganda at this point.

"Gather your forces and focus on taking care of the Gnolls and any bandits you can find in the process. In the meantime I'll personally handle clearing out the concentrations of bandits in the local mines."

The paladin nodded, motioning to a lieutenant to start gathering his men, before looking back to me. "These people won't forget what you've done for them, Marcus. Neither will I."

I shook the mans hand. "It's my home too. I can't stand aside if I have the power to help things along."

The mines were well defended, but they likely weren't prepared for necromancy. It would be easy enough to clear them out and have either zombies or Westfall citizens tend to them.

I had entered Sentinel hill a threat to be feared and hated. I had left a hero to a burgeoning nation, eager to seperate themselves from a kingdom that would not protect them.

I knew what needed to be done and exactly how to do it. This country would have a necromancer for a king soon, and there wasn't a single thing Stormwind could do about it.


	28. Chapter 28

"No, please! I was only in it because I needed the money!" The bloodied form of a Defias miner cried out, the zombified forms of his allies surrounding him within the damp cold of the mine I was clearing out.

"I never hurt anybody!"

I might have bought it too, if I hadn't heard this man bragging about his latest kill this very same day when I was scouting the place out.

"Eat." I called out.

Not that I cared.

The man screamed as the horde around us descended upon him, tearing at him with teeth, claw, and the occasional pick-axe.

I twirled my sword for a moment, before flicking the blood staining the blade into the earth.

Alongside my studies into Bloodlord Anastriel's tome I had instructor Antheol give me a crash course in swordplay. The old Elf was no master by Elven standards, but he was better than most.

The tome itself was unfortunately not designed to impart knowledge, it was a record of Anastriels expirements on the Orc biology. Two decades ago he had captured a significant number of orcs from a clan he did not name.

They were enslaved and twisted to his will as puppets in a way not dissimilar to the common undead of today. Their minds were ground into nothing but an extension of Anastriels will soon after they left the Dark portal.

He gave the horde quite a scare when an entire clan disappeared into the shadows one night, never to be heard from again.

Unfortunately his notes following his account of the orcs capture had not yet been translated fully.

The elf was old enough to use a language somewhere between Darnassian, the language of the night elves, and that of my own people, Thalassian. I needed more time to fully understand his notes on the rituals on the spells he was using.

I had attempted to use one of the spells in the body of one of the bloodmages, and the stains in my personal quarters still havent come out. I would need a perfect translation, or a lot more bodies to make any real progress.

I was in the mine of Jangolode. The last of the mines I was charged with clearing out. I had almost overlooked Jangolode. It wasnt in fact a gold mine, but a mine for iron and copper. It provided most of the mineral used in the creation of Harvest golems.

I actually hadnt known about it until one of the Goblins reported they were running out of supplies. Many of the places in Westfall had been abandoned since the Second war nearly twenty years ago, before even the Defias took over.

The Defias in the area had been using it to make weapons now that the word had gotten out locally that VanCleef was dead, and the Deadmines were taken over.

Like most of the mines, temporarily at least, it had been filled with their old workers, now undead.

I figured since they were out of sight, and worked for free no one would mind their presence. So far I had recieved no complaints from Sentinel hill or the outlying territories.

With the mines under my control I could distribute gold and other minerals freely, hiding my use of the real Defias treasury as simple aquisistion from the mines. I have already bought a significant amount of stone and steel both for Sentinel hill fortress, and the creation of golems.

With the stone I had on hand just from expansion in the dead mines I managed to craft two arcane guardians to guard the entrance of my base of operations. With the lack of an arcane core to use as batteries I used the totems I had created as substitutes.

The golem had a sickly green glow to them, but were far more inviting guards than zombies.

At my suggestion word had been given to the locals who had managed to hold onto their farmsteads over the years, and those who were doing poorly were given coin and food directly from the Defias supply I had stolen in an effort to see them began producing larger crop.

Already we were getting an influx of returning families as word of mouth played to our favor, and orphaned teens trying their hand at reclaiming the lands of their ancestors.

It wouldnt be too long now before word reaches Stormwind, and they begin sending inquires on the situation of the land to Sentinel hill. Eventually we would have to respond.

Those manning Sentinel hill were supplied as well as the common farmer was, if not better, and were using my gold to properly arm themselves and gather as many working tools as they could for the farmers that occasionally stopped by.

The efforts to clear out the Gnolls and outlying bandits had been coming along moderately well, particularly on the bandit side of things. Unfortunately the Riverpaw tribe of Gnolls was giving us some trouble where their counterparts could not.

The Gnolls had taken to hit and run tactics, killing as many militia men as they could before fleeing. Reports told me progress was slowing as the Gnoll tribes they had all but wiped out united under Riverpaw banners.

We have been putting our scouts to the task of finding their encampment, but the nomadic nature of the Gnolls was making things difficult. Once it was found we could kill whatever alpha had taken control of the tribe and scatter them once again.

With Jasperlode secure the only immediate threat was the Riverpaw.

It would be a good opportunity to see how my Harvest Golems held up.


	29. Chapter 29

The Harvest golem was goblin technology requisistioned by the Defias as a weapon of terror. A towering Golem in the shape of a monstrous scarecrow.

They held the dual purpose of tending to the fields and murdering all who sought to steal them back from the Defias. When they where first introduced they ultimately failed in their purpose of terror.

Those farmers the Harvest golems were sent to terrorize where killed with such efficeincy that none managed to escape to tell the tale of the creations of the Defias.

Such was there effectiveness at killing that the goblins had to deliberately sabotage on of their golems to allow a farmer to escape and spread word of the terrors of Westfall.

Each Golem was designed with a core capable of incredible speed in short bursts, alowing them to catch any mortal being if they strode too close to them, and flay them with claws like scythes.

They were each twelve feet of pure carnage, golems easily on par with some of the greater works of my people. They were a weapon of terror not unlike the creatures the scourge call Abominations.

I had withdrawn them to my base as a means for quick refitting for any last minute redesigns I could come up with, and for my immediate defense.

Once I had been educated on the particulars of the Golems I realised there was no need for redisign. The golems had little need for armored plating, as their chassi under the stuffed hay inside their burlap shirts was deceptively small, and incredibly durable.

The cutting implements one could refer to as hands on the Golems were easily detached for the purpose of replacements and differing tools for each task they could be assaigned to complete.

They could be equipped with picks, saws, and of course scythes for various tasks such as the gathering of stone, lumber, and grain. Of course their primary purpose even then was still to inspire horror, and kill whomever the Defias called enemy.

Under my control they now wandered the lands for the purpose of murdering the bandits who once exclusively held the creatures. The Defias originally had little over two hundred of them guarding and tending to farms they had stolen from the land.

The Goblins I had enslaved had been working double-time over the past two months since I had arrived to produce more, building an additional dozen already ready for battle, alongside twenty more nearing completion.

In lieu of actual soldiers, and while I was trying to avoid the excessive use of undead that could be stolen from me by a stronger necromancer I was using them as my primary military force while I was in the open.

Thankfully, while the Golems had all the fear of the farmers who now stood for Westfall over Stormwind, they did not have their hatred. Any farmers who found themselves on the wrong side of such mechanical monstrosities had long since died.

Those who remained had heard of such creatures,but had never personally been harmed by them.

With the golems now wandering the land in general defense of those farmers who tried to rebuild their lives in Westfall, would soon become a symbol of safety and security.

The soldiers themselves greatly appreciated the presence of my favoured minions, from what little my hidden observations on them had revealed.

There presence in the escalating Gnoll conflicts almost immediately turned the tides in Westfalls favor. So much so in fact that now every detachment of the few soldiers of Westfall now included at least one Harvest Golem.

The Gnoll threat was nuetered in its infancy, and now finding their leader was no longer absolutely imperative for our immediate future.

The sheer reliabilty of the Goblin creations, so long as they were well maintained, was beyond even my own generous expectations. Now that their use had proven to be as great as it has I had begun planning their future use.

The Westfall peoples militia, now the Westfall Brigade used fifteen of my Golems.

With the number of active farmsteads at present I had just under a hundred of the Golems available for my own use. The golems had no fear, and as they were not truly alive and could not be plagued, cursed, or bribed I had just the task for them.

Word was to be sent to Duskwood that Westfall was free of the Defias, and that so long as they came with the intention of farming the now open territory they would be granted land as a citizen of the sovereign territory of Westfall.

The general consensus among the people of Sentinel hill was that Westfalls biggest weakness as of now was its population, and while Duskwood was similarly ignored by Stormwind as Westfall, it's population problem was actually not as widespread.

While many have lost their lives to the undead and worgen that now wander those woods, those who managed to survive the curses initial inception managed to gather together and hold onto their lands and homes with surprising stubbornness.

If a considerable amount of the population of Duskwood could be convinced the grass was greener on our side of the fence and that it would be best for them to move into Westfall we would see an influx of farmers, soldiers and traders.

Meanwhile, we could have the Harvest golems march on Duskwood fitted with saws, and begin clearing the land of worgen, undead, and lumber, granting us the neccasary building materials for towns, villages and homes all over the combined territory.

Most importantly, it would both grant me an easy excuse to find the Scythe of Elune, and begin my travels for the next aquisistion. One that if managed correctly could put my power far beyond what it was now.

The Swamp of Sorrows awaits me just beyond Deadwind pass.


	30. Chapter 30

I sent a letter to Sentinal hill of my plans to gain the aid of the people of Duskwood to the east. Gryan Stoutmantel would handle the Gnolls well enough in my abesence, and he knew as well as I did we needed more bodies.

I withdrew my Harvest Golems from the mines, and in the body of the newly named Marcus Moonbrook I made my way down the twenty mile stretch of lightly paved road to Duskwood.

With the Defias cleared, and the Gnoll conflicts focused around the border to Elwynn forest, our travel went largely unimpeded, the closest thing to an enemy the large carrion birds flying overhead, probably used to Harvest Golems leaving corpses in their wake.

I brought with me a dozen skulls covered in arcane and voodoo markings, and wrapped in black silk. They were a more sophisticated design, but ultimately held the same purpose as my totems inside the Deadmines.

They were a tool for fighting the restless spirits I knew would be waiting for me on the other side of the land.

Eventually my procession came to a stop at my command just outside the barrier into Duskwood. The change in the land was as visible as the barrier between Eversong and The Ghostlands.

The Golems, lined in two rows behind me, marched just past me at my mental command, all of them were recently added magical matrix carved on their cores connecting them to me through a scar I carved on my shoulder.

It was a relatively simple relay, but worth me not having to preprogram a task for them.

My procession marched over the bridge crossing the river boundary, and I witnessed for the first time Duskwood.

The magic in the air was different from the Ghostlands, not a direct result of scourge magic in the air, but even in my less attuned human form I could parse out the evil within the land.

Our passing went similarly unimpeded as we traveled the unkempt road of Duskwood that led directly to the largest still active settlement in the province, Darkshire.

Our passing however, did not go unnoticed.

I could feel the eyes of Worgen on my back when they thought I wasn't aware, hungering after my seemingly vulnerable flesh

They weren't aware I was the most dangerous thing on the road.

I knew they wouldn't attack unless provoked, even to their bestial intellect I was too well protected to risk challenging.

We stopped at a fork in the road, leading to the abandoned village of Raven Hill.

The people of Westfall accepted my aid because I had freed them of their plight.

largely from me removing their problem in one fell swoop.

The people in this land had problems from four major areas, and all around the land itself.

One such area was Raven Hill, where the disembodied spirits of the dead haunted the town.

Just past the town was the cemetary of Raven hill, a grand cemetary once filled with thousands of corpses.

Corpses that now wandered this land largely unimpeded.

We reached the town in two hours. I saw the darkened form of hundreds of buildings, all nearly collapsed from years of neglect.

My deadend soul could feel each and every spirit bound to the sorrounding land.

A thousand ghosts forced to watch their land decay, and their bodies attack their loved ones.

I licked my lips as we closed in. Eager.

Whispers erupted around me as the spirits gathered around me, hoping to punish me for having the gall to approach.

We stopped at the center of the town, just in front of once magnificent fountain, its waters murky.

I shut down the golems, before I reached behind me, pulling the pack away and setting it into the earth in front of me.

I placed the skulls around me in a layered circle just around my body. Ignoring the ever louder chanting begining to erupt around me.

"Die." "Suffer." "Die"The chanting built and built until I could hear nothing else. Reaching down into my very soul, hoping to find fear and regret.

"Die." "Suffer." "Die" They found nothing but greed.

The whispered chant ended in an instant as I began to chant in turn.

The ancient Amani tongue quickly carried throughout the woods, and I felt as the souls tried to escape me.

The skulls, wrapped in their black velvet began to glow red as the spirits, one by one, drained away into them.

Countless thousands of hungered spirits trapped in a whirling miasma around me, screaming as they realised who and what they had challenged.

My arms opened into the sky and I laughed freely and madly as I spoke the words. This, This, was power.

In only thirty minutes each and every soul in the town of Raven Hill belonged to me.

For a moment the air around me filled with golden light, as the sun shined truly down upon my posistion for the first time in six years.

It faded as quickly as it came. I quickly gathered the skulls on the ground, their eye sockets now lightly glowing red, echoing the souls now held within.

At my mental command we marched past the town proper, and as we crested a large hill I saw the Scourge in all its glory.

Thousands of shambling corpses wandered just below me, accompanied by skeletons carrying rusted weapons and armor.

Inside the horde below I saw abominations of flesh standing twelve feet tall, wielding meat cleavers, their eyes constantly searching for more prey.

I wasn't impressed. It was scary but unimaginative. ineffective in its waste.

I grasped one of the skulls in my pack. I would show them what real magic was.

I whistled, loudly and shrilly, the sound echoing throughout the shaded woods.

As one the army halted, looking to me in perfect unison.

I ordered my Harvest Golems to attack, and in my palm a thousand souls screamed as I pulled on their energy.


	31. Chapter 31

I prepared to attack as the army of the dead just yards ahead of me charged as one to my position.

In the form of a human, stealing magic was a matter of difficulty and skill. It could be managed, but it took time and effort to manage just a fraction of what I could do in an instant in the body of an High-elf.

Considering my usual methods of matching up to stronger foes, that was quite a weakness when I currently had to spend most of my time in the body of Flint.

I had been working on these skulls ever since I took up the Mantel of Marcus Moonbrook. It was the culmination of my efforts so far.

Antheol had done most of the heavy lifting in the creation of the inscriptions themself, centered around a soul gathering ritual Tim had taught me to aid in the use of raising the undead.

They represented a mix of scourge inscription and arcane enchantment designed to hold a significant amount of power.

I had them made primarily to work as long lasting Golem cores, capable of keeping Golems active for decades, but they held other uses for me.

Unkeyed to the task of keeping a construct of mine functioning they could be used as power sources to increase the striking power of spells without me channeling the magic directly through my body as I had before I died.

They were a perfect answer to the restrictions of the human body. The skull in my hand glowed red as I drew upon the souls who had once been trapped on this land, bound by the curse afflicting it.

In an instant, sorcerous lightning surged from my hands, emanating the same red glow. It plowed through several dozen undead, before striking the form of the closest abomination lumbering towards me.

It exploded into gore, spraying rotten blood and guts around the location it once stood. My Harvest Golems met the horde at the same moment.

The mechanical constructs tore through the simple undead with sickening ease, sawing through the carcasses with whirling saws and scythe like claws.

They moved with speed belying their size, covering the distance of at least a dozen yards in the blink of an eye, charging ahead of my and removing all worry in my mind of losing this fight.

Each of the Golems were worth at least a hundred zombies, but the real test was against the smattering of abominations themselves. I had been able to count around five of them inside the wandering field of undead in the graveyard.

Within spitting distance of me an abomination took the buzzing saw of one of my golem's to the gut, grunting as it swung down its massive meat cleaver with a deafening clang.

The Golems head bent at a ninety degree angle, and it halted it's attack.

In the next moment the golems scythes closed around the Abominations stitched together head, crushing it in an instant. I hummed as the massive pile of flesh collapsed into the earth.

This was why I didn't want to focus on just necromancy. The undead were scary and easy to make, but their real strength would almost always lie in numbers.

I stood back and watched as my Golems did their gruesome work, occasionally blasting the undead that slipped through the ranks with arcane flame or shadowed lightning.

Of course, these creatures had no leadership, no master necromancer directing and empowering them into an actual threat. Something even a couple of humans could handle if it came in small portions.

The people of Duskwood may never really understand just how lucky they were there was no Scourge leadership in the area.

Once my servants began to push forward through the ranks, clearing through the few abominations in the area, I knew the battle was already over. I trailed behind them, drawing on my new battery to burn away the corpses of the damned.

It would be a shame to kill them all now only to have some Arch-lich wander in and destroy the surrounding countryside.

When the last of the undead where torn apart and reduced to charnel I rearranged the golems around me, before I turned us around and began making my way toward Darkshire.

Now that I was convinced in my ability to keep the promises I made, and had proof I could help these people I could arrange things in my favor.

Darkshire would spread word of a freed Westfall, and a saviour bringing monsters capable of beating back the darkness now encapsulating their homeland.

I would be proving Westfall had the power to do what Stormwind couldnt, paving a way to a new united people.

A kingdom in my image. A people whos will was but a reflection of my own.

Under the veneer of personally taking up my magic against the evils within Duskwood I would be able to disappear into the shadows, and make may way to the Swamp of Sorrows.

Within the murk of that corrupted swamp I would garner a glimpse at a bastion of Blood magic and darkest Voodoo, where the trolls Worshiped Hakkar The Soulflayer, the Loa of Blood.

I had no intentions of doing anything but observing the temple where they were attempting to resurrect their god, but I gathered even that presented much to learn about the art.

Surrounding that temple however was the real prize I was looking for.

The Green Dragonflight had sent agents to fight the resurrection of Hakkar, and though they had mostly been captured and enslaved to the very purpose they had been trying to combat, they had made a mistake that left me with a very rare opportunity.

Within the depths of the swamps I knew there were hundreds of Green Dragon whelps. With very little in the way of protection.


	32. Chapter 32

The people of Darkshire where a somber folk. When the curse fell upon their land six years ago they stood stalwartly against the new foes allayed against them.

Hungering undead and vicious wolf men attacked their homes and villages, pulling the innocent from their homes to be slaughtered and eaten.

The once glorious land they lived in, once known as Brightwood became a land of endless dusk. Those who could fled into Elywnn Forest, hoping to remake the lives they lost, but those were few and far between.

Elywnn was fully populated and in a state of recession, the economy of Stormwind heavily taxed by the seemingly endless war with the Orcish Horde, there was little hope of anything but destitution.

So the farmers clung to their lands, and the workers, miners and hunters accepted that their lives simply held considerably more danger than they once did.

They paid the taxes, defended their land, and waited for aid. It did not come.

The only response Stormwind gave, nearly two years after their initial requests were sent, was that the war was too dire for them to spare even a single soldier, and that they had the deepest condolences of the Alliance.

The task of defending the land fell to the people, and the people alone. They had been completely and totally abandoned.

When word spread of the Alliances lack of care for their own people the majority of people stopped paying taxes, and many soldiers who had once been men of the Alliance withdrew from their posts on the warfronts to defend their home's and families.

Those deserters sometimes travled through hundreds of miles of hostile territory, taking months, even years to return to the shattered remains of the places they once called home.

Many were greeted by families hungering after their flesh and blood.

What few soldiers survived the journey home and the dangers inherent to Duskwood eventually banded together into a militia of men and women known as the Watchmen.

Embittered and furious the people of Duskwood gathered together, whole families staying on single farms, armed with gear provided by the Watchmen, for the protection numbers could provide. This tactic ultimately saved them from complete destruction.

With unity and desperation thousands clung together in small communities within small distances of each other, all easily capable of communicating with and gathering for aid against particularly dire threats.

Life was hard, and the world they now lived in was fraught with danger, but they had managed to keep their livelihoods by trading amongst each other.

So they stood stalwart, fighting the inevitable for years, before word began to spread of a change to the west.

The people of Westfall, who had been abandoned to bandits and criminals long ago, as they had been with the curse, had been freed.

Not by the Alliance, not by Stormwind, but by a furious necromancer who had once been a citizen. The people had united with the man, sharing his rage and disgust at Stormwind in spite of the darkness of his magics.

Within the span of three months the Defias had been all but purged from Westfall, and now there where whispers they planned a full seccession from Stormwind.

Duskwood held little love for necromancers, but they understood the anger and indignity of abandonment well. It was a month later that they recieved word Marcus of Moonbrook himself would be traveling to Darkshire to provide what aid he could.

The word was a relief to the people, even if they knew their problems where far from over. Understandibly the forces of the newly independent Westfall likely had little to spare by way of soldiers.

The fact they could send aid at all was a miracle in its self. The fact they would send the aid when Stormwind had ignored them for years was nothing more than a message.

The people came first.

A week after that the scouts and hunters surveying the land for the latest pack of Worgen or undead horde reported that a force could be seen marching from Westfall, one they could only recognize as Golems.

A hundred Golems, each twelve feet tall and equipped with brutal weaponry dripping with gore walked behind a pale man in a dark cloak they all knew could only be the mysterious savior of Westfall.

It was lord Ello Ebonlocke, mayor of Darkshire and ruler of Duskwood, who strode out to greet the man who had come to help them. The only noble who had bothered to stay and aid his people when the curse fell upon the land.

He did not look like a necromancer, Ebonlocke couldn't help but think, the man was pale to be certain, but most in Duskwood were.

This Marcus of Moonbrook was dressed in silk vestments and fine black pants, with a well maintained sword at his hip. On his back was a backpack, full but its contents unknown.

"Lord Ebonlocke, I presume?" The mans voice was smooth and cultured, though it had an accent he would almost call Elven.

He nodded, before speaking.

"You presume correctly, lord Marcus, but please, call me Ello. I would not have someone providing the first aid we've seen refer to me as anything less than an equal."

The man grinned, and outstretched his hand clasping it with his own.

"Of course, Ello. My only regret is that I cannot spare more aid, I can spare so little to the task."

Ello nearly sputtered at the words. A hundred Soldiers would be a godsend, but a hundred Golems was something else entirely. Almost a miracle.

Marcus looked around the shaded buildings, well maintained but aged.

"Come then, join me in my home, I'm certain we have much to discuss."

He knew why Marcus was here. Westfall had or would soon declare itself independent of Stormwind, and as such had no obligation to Duskwood.

This Marcus had come here to secure the allegiance of his people.

Duskwood was inclined to do so.

"How many people reside, if I may ask, in Duskwood?" It was a strange question.

Ello paused as he lead the man to his manor, looking to the grinning face of a teenage boy as he looked through the window of his home.

He had ordered the people to remain in their homes, in fear a large gathering would attract the attentions of the worgen.

"Its difficult to keep track of those who still remain, but we have around sixty closely scattered hamlets throughout the territory. The largest cluster of them holds about four thousand people."

The man motioned lightly with his hand, and the scare-crow like Golems spread out, standing guard around the town.

"Thats quite a number. You've done well in keeping youre people safe. Westfall's entire population may be half that number."

Ello frowned.

It was true he had done what he could to save the common folk. But to hear the Alliance refused to aid people in the midst of a near Genocide by the Defias was a reminder on why they had to have this conversation.

"We will speak more in my manor. As uncaring as I must sound, It seems like you have the space for refugees."

The man smiled.

"Of course."


	33. Chapter 33

The talks with Ebonlocke didn't take too long. He was eager to leave Duskwood to me and my servants, taking his people to Westfall where they could farm and work without worry of a horrible and violent death.

I warned them about keeping vigilant due to possible Defias survivors and Gnoll war parties, but we were both aware of the difference in danger between the two areas.

The lord of Duskwood did warn me about a group of Ogres that had taken up residence in the area.

They werent as aggressive to the locals due to the constant distraction of the undead, but there had been a couple dozen disappearances that could have been them.

I would have to figure out what to do with them in the future.

I sent the people of the town, some five hundred men, women, and children, on the way back to Westfall. They were to be guarded by twenty of my Harvest Golems on the journey to their new home.

The watch sent out riders with word to every other settlement to either attempt to make their leave now, or wait for the Harvest Golems to arrive and see them escorted out.

From our position in Raven Hill I had the remaining Golems spread out with orders to gather lumber and place it the towns center, where it would eventually be gathered and distributed throughout westfall.

The Harvest Golems would travel in groups of ten in relative proximity to each other, exterminating any wandering undead and worgen.

When Darkshire was cleared of its residents I took two of the Golems with me and made my way down the relatively short distance from Darkshire to the entrance of Deadwind pass.

It was a barren and empty place, haunted by the spirits of the dead who had tried to investigate Tower Karazhan and a tribe of Ogres.

Duskwood was a gloomy place, but it had life and activity. Deadwind pass was different. Haunted in a manner I wasn't familiar with.

It was unsettling even to me. The only sound that met my ears was the light Whirring of gears in my Golems, and our footsteps. Above us flew the darkened shapes of what I assumed to be carrion birds.

We traveled around three miles down the beaten path before we came to the crossroads marked with a hangman's tree still bearing a pair of corpses, as well as a signpost reading 'Turn Back!' and 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.'

This was Deadman's crossing.

The east lead towards my destination, and the south to the ogres and the tower of Karazhan. Karazhan was the tower of the greatest human mage to have lived in a very long time.

He was once the last in a line of protectors of human kind known as the guardians of Tirisfal. They were mages enhanced with powers beyond the norm, created to combat the Burning legion.

The last gaurdian fell to Sargeras, leader of the legion in a battle within the tower, and the power within the human was so great his death cursed the land.

One day soon I would uncover the secrets held within that tower, when my strength was enough to match whatever horrors awaited me within.

It was a sobering thought. Challenging something like that. Even now the power within the tower was palpable. Even if I knew nothing of that place, even if I had no magic to call upon, I would know exactly where that place was.

Not to find it, not to locate the place, but to know exactly where I must never go. I feared that place, and that was exactly why I needed to conquer it.

Audacity had brought me this far in the world. It will always be who dares to grasp power, who rules this world.

With that in mind I traveled down the road, focusing on going eastward. My destination was dangerous. The whelps that littered the Swamp of Sorrows where guarded by a near ancient green dragon in the form of a High-elf.

They were lightly defended by the standards of dragons, in that no brood-mother awaited me nearby, and that they were not guarded within a deep cave or castle lair.

Thankfully, whelps were viewed with a sense of guarded hope by most dragons. They were protected but largely expected to die of sickness or predatory creatures.

Survival of the fittest. If they did not show apt ability to live on their own, they would not be able to survive in the future and where therefore better off dead now, before attachment grew.

Dragons lay large clutches because like all animals that do so, most do not survive. If a number of them where to disappear it would be chalked up to a predator.

In the Swamp of Sorrows there where many predators in all forms. Still, if that dragon saw me kidnapping his charges I imagine he would not take it sitting down.

I was powerful by most standards, but not at a level where I could just waltz up to a dragon and steal the clutch he had chosen to defend.

When we crossed the mountain threshold to the swamp the change was nearly immediate.

Murky algae covered waters greeted my eyes, waist high in most places, and the eyes of Crocolisks and other dangers surely followed me as soon as I approached the waters.

I commanded my golems to wait for me, and hide behind a large outcropping of rocks a decent ways off the road in the mountain pass.

Harvest golems chassis could handle the swamp, but unfortunately their outer covering was not made for the area.

I marched alone down the road, knowing failure could spell true death for me.


	34. Chapter 34

I walked along the road for about thirty minutes before I decided I had gone far enough.

With a heavy sigh I stepped into the disgusting muddy waters of the swamp itself, and began to half trudge, half swim toward the area I knew the whelps where commonly found.

The body I resided in grew tired and sluggish within the first few minutes of my "swim" and I realized I should probably have given my slave a bit of rest before coming here.

We had traveled for most of a day to even reach Duskwood, and to be honest I hadn't been paying attention to the passing of time with the state of constant gloom the place was in.

A closer inspection of the body revealed I had overtaxed it by quite a large margin. Several of the muscles were torn, and soon enough I might even start hallucinating.

I traveled through the murk for around another hour before I decided it was time to solve the problem.

I cut my hand messily along the haft of my blade, before swimming to the shore of one of the small islands that sat a couple feet apart within the swamp.

As I made my way over I noticed several shapes that I had assumed to be driftwood following me.

I managed to reach the shore of the island before the crocolisks did, clambering up from the mud of the land with as much dignity as I could manage.

Not as much as I would have liked.

There were three that I could see, and a couple of well placed death bolts quickly turned that number into one as the wounded animals fled, not realizing that they would soon die anyway.

I waited for the last to reach the shore, breaching the surface fully with a massive splash as a large set of jaws made to clasp around me and pull me into a watery grave.

I stepped aside, letting the creature fly past me and unsheathing my sword with a flourish. With enhanced strength I drove the blade downward into the beasts skull, pushing it through and into the earth below it.

It struggled against the blade pinning it to the ground, dying as it did. I quickly drew the blood from the creature onto my body, tracing symbols I had memorized from Anastriel's tome.

They were used traditionally as a means to cast spells Anastriel had personally crafted, of which I knew none. But I found they could also be used to force the kind of healing Nyssa has managed in the past.

A small application of mana got the process started, and I watched as the beast shuddered, the blood pooling around its head now flowing to me.

I sat cross legged, focusing on channeling my mana in a way I new it wasn't supposed to go.

I closed my eyes, feeling as the creatures life force restored the wound i had given myself, and brought the body back into a manageable state, if not the mind.

When I opened them again the dried husk of a Crocolisk lay drained of blood just in front of me. I pushed the creature back in the water with a quick kick, figuring whatever other things may lay in the water would handle disposal well enough.

I leaned against the trunk of a tree, observing the land around me. I hated swamps. When I was in control of this place I would probably either never visit, or simply blow it up.

Just because I was willing to be here for the opportunity presented, didn't mean I was enjoying my time in a mud covered land filled with bugs.

It sort of fit the stereotypes most of the Elves had for the lesser races. Before Rick was in my head I had always assumed humans were mud-people, mostly staying in places like this.

I had come here with plans to take a look at the Sunken temple, but to be honest I was planning to leave now as soon as I had my prize.

Then a flutter of movement caught my eye. A flash of green scales above.

I looked up to the sight of a green drake flying overhead, headed to in the same direction I was going. I grinned at the reassurance. I was in the right place.

With a near skip in my step I jumped up, before making a swimmers dive into the waters in front of me.

It was only another hour of swimming through the waters of the swamp, and avoiding crocodiles and suspicious moving patches of moss I knew to be bog beasts, a kind of plant monster, that I found a group of the very beasts I was looking for.

Within the trees, sticking together in something like a pack, was a group of draconic whelps, surrounding the form of a very large and very dead crocolisk, relishing in their meal.

Whelps at that age looked something like lizards that had heads around three sizes too large for their bodies, and wings equally too small.

At a distance they where cute, before the rows of shark-like teeth and general viciousness of them became apparent.

A dragon whelp found in the wild was usually around three months old, four feet long from tail tip to snout, and weighed around a hundred and eighty pounds.

They where dangerous predators in their own right, and each of them was scarily intelligent. Some were smart enough at this age even to speak.

I dropped the moment I saw them, submerging myself out of view, before I surfaced behind a cluster of trees, and began to prepare the skulls in my pack.

Dragons, even whelps, where creatures of magic, and creatures of will. A dragon whelp had enough magic in it to match adept mages, and they had a natural affinity far beyond them.

Most spells I could cast on them would be at least partially resisted, and the one I had in mind could very easily be overpowered. It was a simple charm, something even children could use.

Sleep. It was usually magically enforced for around ten seconds before it drew away and it was up to the victims disposition to awaken.

I planned on not only extending the affect to several beings at once, but to make it last for several days.

Add in the fact the nature of my intended targets and the amount of preparation I had put into such a simple casting began to make more sense.

I gathered the skulls around me in a circle not unlike the one I had used to capture the souls in the first place.

They glowed red as I drew upon the souls from my place behind the tree line, and I watched the dragons heads whip upward as they sensed considerable amounts of magic gather together seemingly from nothing.

A couple of them managed to let out a strangled lizard-like call, before I unleashed the full power of several thousand souls into a simple sleep spell.

The entire clutch immediately fell unconscious, falling to the earth in a state of death like sleep.

The skulls crumbled away as I stepped past the magical circle, and in an instant I dove after the whelps, crossing the waters between us with near supernatural speed.

A quick scan of the group told me there was three females, and four males based of the pattern and brightness of their scales.

They all seemed sickly and relatively weak now that I was close, unlikely to be a batch that would survive long on their own.

I dumped out the contents of my pack onto the ground, mostly survival supplies and camping gear, before I sent a fireball into the pile, ridding myself of any evidence.

I grabbed one of the males.

I stuffed the whelp inside the pack, making certain to enclose it around itself in as small a ball I could manage without hurting it.

Eventually I managed to get its whole body inside, before I gently lifted the bag over my head, and began my journey back home.

Along the way I nearly giggled as I thought on the possibilities.


	35. Chapter 35

The journey back to the mountain pass of Deadwind was considerably longer than I would have liked. Holding my prize above my head and treading water to keep the unconscious whelp from drowning had slowed me to a snails pace.

It took the better part of a full day to return to my Harvest Golems, which seemed to have gone undiscovered in my time away.

It was the dark of night by the time we managed to head into deadwind pass, and journey our way back to the equally dreary land of Duskwood.

We managed to cross to Duskwood relatively easily, our progress only having been halted once by three ogres looking for an easy meal.

The smoking remains of their bodies would see their friends fed for some time.

I would have raised them for the added protection, but I had gone a little overboard in my eagerness to leave.

It would have taken a lot of time and stitching to put them back together.

When we finally arrived in Duskwood I could already seen the beginning of the changes I had started to put in place.

Harvest golems gathered the shredded corpses of worgen and undead alike into large piles along the road side, easily ready to be burned.

Also along the road where several piles of wood from cleared trees, though as of yet I hadn't seen the fields that they had started on to gather the lumber.

In a couple of days I would be sending more workers and Golems out to transport the wood to Westfall, and to burn the bodies.

I did manage to see a few of my golems at work on the primary purpose of their stay in the province.

I saw several golems working together to tear a particularly large and dangerous looking abomination apart in a field of dead bodies.

Regrettably there were several disabled Harvest Golems around the battlefield. In a couple months of work like this the ones I brought in would have to be reinforced, and replaced by models that hadnt sustained damage.

Given enough time though, I'll see this place turned into nothing more than farmland, even if I never find the scythe.

The green whelp moved little in the forced slumber I had placed on it, but I made certain to inspect him every time I stopped to rest along the abandoned buildings near the road.

He was thin, and sickly, but alive. I could feel the magic inside him, something nearing that of the apprentices who had studied bloodmagic.

More than I'd expect from a creature less than a year old, but dragons where at the top of this worlds food chain for a reason. A full grown dragon was a threat to even some of the major players in this world.

An adult dragon could feasibly match a demon general, or most of the upper scourge leadership in single combat. It was close in those situations, and neither demons nor undead would willingly enter combat alone, but it hass happened in the past.

In a couple years it'll be a dragon that nearly ends the world, even if its the most powerful living one.

That kind of power was something I needed. I had been forcing experts and adepts in several different fields of magic to work together and attempt to use the combination for my own strength.

They were giving me an education on useful spells, how the different magics worked together, and how I could use it myself.

Every spell I now used in combat was something I knew exactly how to manipulate in nearly every form of magic I was trying to learn. I had grown at a monstrous rate for the year I had been here, taking advantage of a world in peril.

It would never be enough if I played this fairly. I knew what experts in the field could do. Antheol could kill me in an instant if he was ever freed, Tim could arguably do the same with some preparation.

Even the apprentice necromancers where a threat if they came at the right moment.

Which was where the rituals I was putting together would be my saviour.

I was working with experts in several fields of magic that had never been crossed before.

They where all modifying rituals primarily based in necromancy, Voodoo and now blood magic all designed to increase my strength.

My servants where in the process of figuring out how to cast no less than a dozen custom made rituals safely. That was my strength, that was the factor that would tilt things in my favor.

Some would take years to have the resources or circumstance to complete, others would need power at a level I simply couldn't put together easily, and still more where matters of scale.

In a decade I could master perhaps a single field of magic, but why bother when those who had grown so close to mastering them worked for me already?

I was not looking to be someone who people approached with caution, I was not looking to be someone the major players chose not to fight alone for their own safety.

I was looking to break the scale people used to measure strength. I would not be a king. I would not be a god.

I would be worse.

I would be something else entirely. I pulled my pack away, looking at it as I descended into the Deadmines once again, nearly a week after I had left.

I smiled as the whelp coughed in its slumber, it was something weak, something no-one expected anything of.

Just like me.

"Of all the evil I've done, of all the magic I've put together, you will be my masterpiece."


	36. Chapter 36

Hogger of the Riverpaw tribe was the greatest Gnoll to ever live. All his pack said so.

Those who didnt where just more bones to gnaw on. For years he had led his pack on raid after raid against the humans, and against the other packs.

He had gathered shinies shinier than any Gnoll he had ever seen, and trophies of every life he had ever had the pleasure of taking. Life had been good.

Eventually, after a particularly successful raid, he had received an offer from some strange humans.

He would lead his raids deep into the heart of the blue human packs territory, and in return for doing everything he was already doing he would receive weapons, supplies, and a mine filled to the brim with Kobolds he could use for slaves.

He almost said no out of spite. He never liked humans and the one who came obviously incorrectly thought he was smarter than the great Hogger.

Instead, in his infinite wisdom he killed the messenger and started raiding the areas he mentioned, and occasionally humans brought the supplies they offered.

So he killed humans, feasted well, earned more mates than he had ever had by proving his glory to the females of other tribes, and of course killed humans.

Many tried to stop him, patrolls of the blue pack from storm-whatever marched out in greater and greater numbers to protect the farms in villages.

Now those patrolls made up the armor and weapons his tribe used, filled their bellies, and of that soft and smooth skin made up their tents. Life had been good.

Then the supplies stopped coming, and a few in his tribe said the defias humans had forgotten the mighty Hogger.

So after he mounted his naysayers on spits he decided to take his revenge, to remind them who they had challenged, he struck deep into the human lands, killing the farmers, the patrols and of course any wearing a red mask he came across.

Many of the men said stupid things like "Arent we allies!" or "Please no, dont hurt me!" Obviously trying to lie to him about the declaration of war they had sent his way by not honoring the deal.

Unfortunately not all the humans took his war laying down. Many times he found himself on the field against whole warbands of humans.

In his infinite smartness he attacked them when they werent prepared, and then ran before they could react. His perfect cunning strategy meant he could fight the foes whenever he wanted at no risk to him.

Stil, the size of the enemy warband he was trying to beat made things difficult, and he lost as many pack members as he had gained from attacking the tribes who had been trying to flee the humans.

While he fought them he raiding the surrounding towns and villages for food and supplies, leaving the remains of his victims of a reminder of what happend to challengers of Hogger.

The humans eventually brought war beasts of metal and hay to fight him, costing him hundreds of lives. Eventually he learned to attack them only from a distance, or not at all.

The strange creatures were quick and deadly, but unable to chase over long distances. With that in mind he redoubled his efforts to attack before the humans could properly fight back.

The cycle of fighting and raiding had gone on for many moons before his scouts reported something strange one night.

A lone elf, covered in bandages, just outside of view to his camp, waiting with his arms spread.

All around him were a series of funny lines drawn in the loose earth.

The scouts claimed they had shot at him a few times before reporting this, but just in case he killed them for lying before ordering the rest of the tribe who had ranged weapons to do the same.

The arrows and bolts of his warriors, those of which flew truely struck the elfs body, and while he flinched at the blows he did not fall.

The elf had several arrows throughout his body.

He simply stepped back, bracing the impact, before stepping forward again, his arms spread. "Coward!" the elf called out, still unmoving.

The shamans advised he let them try, but he knew they were just trying to steal his kill, undermine him while he was being made fun of.

With a snarl Hogger ordered his pack to attack, charging forward with his axe.

Nearly two hundred Gnolls followed with him, yipping, snarling, and laughing as they did.

They charged against the field in the certainty they would slay the lone elf. Even if their blows did not kill him, Hogger would chop him apart and bury the bits somewhere.

It was only when they charged past the funny lines that Hogger realised something was wrong. The moment he crossed the threshold he felt lethargic and drained.

As he charged he slowed, his form growing heavier and heavier as he approached. The sound of his own blood pumping sounded in his ears as he grew near to the elf in bandages.

A pale blue glow shined from behind the Elves eyes, and when he grew close enough to swing his axe he heard the whispered chanting of the creature.

He collapsed before he could even lift his weapon, falling to earth in front of a strangely carved totem, with a skull embedded on it.

Hogger's eyes closed for the last time as a living being, falling into a sleep that would never end.

The last thing he heard was the elf humming lightly to himself.


	37. Chapter 37

That was...easier than I thought it would be.

To be fair the main issue with the Gnolls was that they moved about alot, raiding and murdering across the country side and then disappearing as soon as they came.

Luckily one of them was captured alive in their latest assault against the Westfall Brigade. At my request the hyena man was given to me, and I had Antheol use his blood to scry out their location

He was currently the subject of several ongoing expirements by the bloodmages and necromancers. I personally didn't think he would last very long.

I eventually decided to handle it myself as a bit of a personal test on my work with rituals. I had made some changes to the formula I used on the Defias for using their souls as energy.

I was using the gnolls own life force as a means of keeping them alive. The effect of the spell would be to make minions on par with their living counterparts pyhsically, if not mentally.

On Gnolls this might actually be an improvement. Its often said that gnolls would be in control of the world if they just worked together, and they werent so damned stupid.

The rising forms of two hundred Gnolls was an intimidating sight.

My new minions rose in silence with agility one wouldnt expect from the undead.

A blast of lightning at my side brought me out of my thoughts, and tossed me back a couple feet. I jumped up in an instant, crouching below the forms of my minions a moment later.

A look at the hillside revealed not all of my targets had entered the circle. A number of Gnolls were channeling magic at me from a distance.

The group had shamans. Interesting.

I didn't have any of the mixture on me, but this was still an opportunity.

None of the bolts were actually aimed at any of my minions, though some had hit the ones I was nearby. That meant they weren't aware their Friends weren't alive anymore.

Probably why they hadn't ran.

At a snap of my fingers the horde of Gnolls turned around, before charging up the hill after the forms of the shamans.

* * *

The return back to the Deadmines was uneventful, boring if I was honest, but I had a few more magic casters than I did earlier so that was a plus.

Shamans werent of much use aside from having fresh sets of eyes looking to the spirits of the lands, and aiding in powering rituals.

However that did free them up to help in the preparation of bodies, and eventually be taught other things.

The Gnolls had tried to run once they had an idea of what was going on, but they got chased down pretty quickly.

I had them restrained by their old fellows, and ferried them back with little struggle.

They even stopped snarling some time ago after I cut out one of their tongues.

I pulled up my hood, and the distance between me and any possible onlookers meant they would probably assume me to be Marcus, even if up close my current body didn't bare much resemblance.

I had us move at a fairly rapid pace in order to avoid any confusion.

I was confindent no one would see us in the middle of the night, and even if they did they would not assume the army marching in perfect unison, while in formation was anything but the Brigade itself.

When I took them back I had a plan for the Gnolls.

The average Gnoll was seven feet of muscle and rage,easily capable of matching the common footman, and that was with a particularly stupid mind leading them about.

Unlike their game counterparts they looked almost like a smaller worgen, or the Gnoll dnd equivalents.

Inside the mines they would each be examined and measured for armor, which I would eventually see either commisioned or made by my goblin workforce when the need for Harvest Golems grew less pressing.

Which without Hogger and his lot raiding the lands, would be soon.

While proper armor and weapons were prepared for them I would have each Gnoll embalmed and then carved with engravings to store power the magical power generated by a living beings death.

They would keep this power for either my own use, or if I was close enough to manipulate the engravings, use the energy to overcharge themselves and fight harder.

I was also adding another caveat to the creatures, an idea I had while I was overlooking the construction of a few Arcane guardians for Moonbrook.

While the Gnolls where being torn apart and put back together for the carvings I would be having their bodies at the center fitted with a makeshift golem core not unlike my guardians were.

The golem core would be connected to the armor they wore through carvings on the metal, granting them considerably more strength than a Gnoll would have.

The nature of armor, and its lack of weight meant the boost wouldn't be too much compared to the average golem, but it would still nearly double their physical capabilities if my math was correct.

These Gnoll would be my personal guard. Unthinking, fearless, and ever loyal monsters.

They would be the perfect example of where the Scourge went wrong.

It would take time for the armor to be made unless I commissioned it, but the preparation of the bodies themselves would be as soon as two months even with my mages distracted by their work on my whelp.

In the meantime I was planning on heading to Stormwind, and visiting Sentinel hill on the way with the news of my victory.

I would be searching among the cities market for whatever magical knowledge I could acquire, while my people officially declared their independence.


	38. Chapter 38

Sentinel hill had changed in the short few months since Marcus Moonbrook announced that Stormwind was no longer the power in Westfall.

With the Help of Macus' Harvest golems in every detachment of the Westfall brigade, they had found themselves easily pushing out the Defias from every camp, stronghold, and mine they had come across.

They made more progress in seeing the land restored to its people in two months than Stormwind had in fifteen years.

With the slow but steady restoration of the farmland to the people who had once owned it the light grumbles of those who didn't trust the necromancer who had come to avenge his home had all but disappeared.

Still, many wondered, what was next? could they really call themselves a people, a nation, but with so few was that really true?

One thousand soldiers and militia men made up the "army" of Westfall, and perhaps four thousand citizens now that transients were migrating from Elywnn

It was when the refugees from Duskwood came into Westfall that the people realised that not only had things changed, but they had changed enough for them to truly become a nation.

Even now, thousands travled from their homes and villages in Duskwood, escorted by Watchmen and Harvest-golems in hope of lands and homes that were not in a state of constant peril.

With the Defias all but wiped out, and the Gnolls quickly becoming isolated as the only threat, it was true, Westfall was safer.

They constant stream of people arriving to Sentinel hill marked a change. The farmland that had not been completely destroyed by the Defias, and salted so it could never be tended to again was already being divided.

Thousands of acres of fertile land was constantly being selected for those trying to make a home for themselves, before deeds of ownership were distributed.

And who was it that saved these people? Stormwind? The Alliance? No.

It was one of them, another son of Westfall who had been hurt by the Defias, by the inaction of their protectors.

A necromancer, a dark wizard, but a champion of the people. When Marcus of Moonbrook returned from the ruins of his old home it was to the cheers of the thousands he had saved.

The savior of Westfall arrived, waving to the people as if he was an old friend, holding in one hand a massive, rusted axe.

Just like the head of Edwin Vancleef just a few months earlier, he tossed it to the feet of the people, calling out just once to the crowd. "The Riverpaw leaders axe, my gift to the people."

The crowd roared as once again a necromancer, a creature to be feared, brought them the remains of a foe who had plagued the land.

Marcus strode through the crowd, it's people moving to allow him through, and walked into the Sentinel Tower.

* * *

Inside the tower, Gryan Stoutmantel discussed with several commanders and Lord Ebonlocke on the particulars of Westfall's geography, and how it would be distributed.

Gryan looked up from the meeting, his eyes lighting up as he recognized me. "Marcus! A pleasure to see you What brings you to Sentinel hill?"

I looked over the group he stood with for a moment, before looking back to him with a smirk. "Change my friend, change."

"Just two days ago I led the Riverpaw tribe into a trap, and wiped them off the face of Azeroth. Whatever remains of the Gnoll's will be scattered remnants, just like the Defias."

The mans smile broke into a full grown grin. "Wonderful, with the Gnolls crippled as you say they are we should be able to handle any remnants with the forces we have on hand."

I nodded. "Indeed. With Hogger gone we can bring our focus to seeing the people protected, and the land restored. Perhaps even as something greater than what it once was."

"Perhaps we could all get some rest for a change." several people in the room chuckled.

Now for the real reason I was here.

"With the land safer than it's ever been, I think it's time we officially made our intentions known. From what I've heard Stormwind has sent several letters asking on the health in the region, and congratulating us for our victory over the Defias."

"It won't be long before they begin asking why we started tearing apart Duskwood for it's lumber without their permission, and when we can go back to letting them siphon off our wealth to fight off the Horde."

Instead of defending us. It went unsaid, but I knew what they were thinking.

"I plan to head to Stormwind with Stoutmantel and Ebonlocke with an escort of their choosing. We tell Stormwind we serve them no longer, and that this land belongs to the people now."

The people in the room nodded, some grunting out their agreement.

One of the lietenants in the back leaned forward on his chair. "It's time we told them to fuck off, but what of defending ourselves? They might not take it sitting down."

I laughed. "Like they didn't take the Defias sitting down? They don't have the army to enforce rule over us, and even if they did they would lose the support of the people that still call themselves citizens to that country."

I shook my head. "They might bluster at us, but they can't do anything about it. As for defence, I'm sure youre all aware we have little to worry about from land attacks by most of the other threats in the land.

Many of them muttered their agreements.

It was true, Westfall and Duskwood were both bordered by steep mountains between Stranglethorn and Deadwind, which both already had little in the way of threats against the forces we have at out disposal.

"It's an attack by sea we have to worry about. We have little in the way of a Navy, and if the Horde decided to attack us they could bombard our lands from the oceans. we may be able to put something together soon however."

Gryan Stoutmantel tilted his head, before his eyes widened. "Marcus, you may be a genius."

Damned right. "We will soon be receiving an influx of lumber from Duskwood, and between the Gold we have on hand and whatever we might manage from the mines we can make our own ships."

"Even if Stormwind refuses to trade after we secede officially, the Steamwheedle Cartel would be more than happy to provide mercenaries and supplies."

I picked up a mans flagon of mead, downing what was left of its contents in one go before I spoke again.

"Like the lieutenant said. It's time we told Stormwind to fuck off."


	39. Chapter 39

I stayed with Ebonlocke and Stoutmantel to manage some of the particulars regarding land distribution, and how people without enough land or experience to farm would make their living.

It was decided the mines would stay under my control for safeties sake, many of the mines had fell into ill repair over the years and the chances of tunnel collapse had already been worryingly high.

We decided armed workers would be sent into Duskwood, manning the roads where the lumber and bodies where being piled, at the rate we were looking at we could have the undead and Worgen cleared in two years if the number of golems stayed the same.

In four we might have the forest itself cleared, which would open up more farmland.

The curse had effected many things, birthrates, worgen, and the living dead among them, but it had remarkably enough not effected the fertility of the land, which remained the same as ever.

Even if the scythe was never found, the land would still have value for the future.

Depending on the amount of wood we manage to harvest, I had also suggested we build walls between the roads leading to and from Stranglethorn, and Deadwind pass, the only places we could be attacked from the land in the immediate future.

Deadwind pass and Stranglethorn were both mostly closed off due to the mountains, but both had paths through the mountains which could be fortified.

It would provide defense against forces coming from those areas, and open up an opportunity for us to toll the roads for passage from merchants and travelers.

If I had my way I would have as much built within Westfall as possible, the combined population and territory of Duskwood and Westfall should see us become a major exporter of grain and other livestock.

The mines should also see to the expansion of my kingdoms wealth nicely.

With us confident in the future of Westfall the time came for us to leave for Stormwind.

I traveled on a caravan guarded by twenty men, and two Harvest Golems, with Ebonlocke and Stoutmantel.

Those two men where the only other people of high standing in the new kingdom that was forming around me.

Ebonlocke had lead the people of Duskwood with what little resources he had available incredibly well.

Stoutmantel had done the same in organizing the Westfall militia. Together with me we made up the most important people in Westfall.

When we crossed the boundary the yellowed grass and stale air of Westfall made way to a lush forest filled with the sound of chirping birds.

Our procession was met with strange looks and stares as we made our way down the well kept road of Elywnn forest to the city of idiots that was Stormwind.

It never would have been so easy if not for them. How much wealth, food, and soldiers had they lost by not protecting their own backyard?

It was shameful, an insult even. Did they really not think this wouldnt have happend?

If the people didnt rebel a warlord would have shown up at some point, or the scourge.

Someone like me would have taken advantage eventually.

A couple of Guards joined us on our way, making certain we were headed to Stormwind as we told them.

The beautiful scenery, well kept roads, and happy people clearly annoyed our escort.

I was certain when they returned they would relay just how well the other province under Stormwind was doing.

Gaurds patrolled the road regularly, keeping the people safe from any potential invaders at all times.

To the people who lived their I'm certain it was a reassurance. To the guards and Ebonlocke it was just a slap to the face.

Stoutmantel looked disappointed mostly. The old paladin was too kind for his own good.

The distance was short, and at a brisk pace we managed to reach Stormwind at the next dawn.

We entered Stormwind through two massive reinforced doors, crossing a bridge over a moat into the city proper.

Hanging under a rampart was the massive head of a Dragon.

It seemed Oxynia had met her end, and recently too if the freshness of the head was any indicator.

For the best, probably. She was the most likely being to find out I wasn't who I said I was, and I was certain she'd use that to try and control me.

I'd have had to let her too, Oxynia was the daughter of Deathwing himself, an ancient dragon. There was no fighting something like that for me.

Yet.

We were lead through winding streets past the trade district, where merchants foreign and domestic plied their trade to visitors and residents of the city.

We passed old town and got a good look at the Dwarven district, before we finally saw the keep itself.

It was a seperate fortress within the city, fortified in case the outer walls were ever breached, or the peasants grew unruly and got ideas above their station.

It was Varian Wrynn himself who welcomed us to Stormwind, he marched out from the front gates to the keep itself, a grin on his face.

He looked almost exactly like what the game presented him as.

He was a well muscled man with a ponytail, and a large scar crossing over his face.

It would be fun to see that smile disappear.

"Welcome! Welcome! You must be the procession from Westfall. I had been waiting for good news."

I nodded at the king of the greatest and only human kingdom in the Eastern kingdoms. Knowing that state of affairs wouldn't last much longer.

I smiled, stepping forward.

"I hope not to disappoint."


	40. Chapter 40

"With the war on Outland, the constant aggression from the Horde, I never would have thought Duskwood to be free, much less Westfall and Duskwood."

King Varian spoke to us as we made our way to the throne room.

Stained glass windows overlooked the throne of Varian Wrynn, making it clear this was more than the home of a king, it was a bastion of the light. I shivered.

Never liked the light much, gave me the creeps. A crowd of individuals waited for us inside, a gathering of men and women.

"If the rumors are right, we owe it to one man." The king of Stormwind glanced to me as we walked, his eyes flashing with something I did not recognize.

I looked over to the other people waiting for us. They were all well dressed, nobles if I had to guess. Probably nobles with interest in the land I now owned.

I only recognized one of them, an attractive, ample blonde woman in the robes of a mage.

Her presence immediately put me on edge.

Jaina Proudmoore. One of the most accomplished mages there was. She didn't look happy to see me either.

"Marcus Moonbrook. The necromancer who saved Westfall." The guards, the men Varian had around us, shifted uneasily at the word.

"In light of your actions in the name of the Alliance and your kingdom we are willing to forgive your past. I-" I cut him off.

"Westfall." Several individuals gaped at the disrespect to a king, I heard someone in the back gasp.

"What?" Varian turned, stopping just before he made to introduce the group, his eyes narrowing.

"I did it to save Westfall and Duskwood, I did it for the people therein." I smiled, taking in the atmosphere of the room as people began to realise what was going on.

"Not for you." I watched the mans smile grow considerably more strained.

Jaina stepped forward, nearly growling at me.

"Address your king respectfully necromancer! He's saved your life by forgiving you."

Even furious she was something to behold, icy blue eyes looked at me through golden blonde locks.

No wonder prince Kael'thas was rumored to have affections for her.

I tilted my head at her. "He's no king of mine." Her teeth gritted as she looked me up and down, analyzing me for the kind of threat I could be.

"You reject his hospitality?" One of the nobles spoke this time, a thin man with a hooked nose and poor posture. "A criminal speaking down to a king?"

He looked to the king of Stormwind."My lord it's clear this vagabond has no respect, this procession comes to announce the return of Westfall officially to our hands and he has the gall to-"

I laughed in the man's face. "Your hands? No. Were here to tell you Westfall belongs to us now."

That threw things for a loop. The nobles immediately yelled out their dissent, calling for justice.

The king looked to me, eyes wide. "Secession? Those lands have belonged to Stormwind for generations. You think you can change that just because you killed some bandits?"

"I think I can do that because you lost those lands fifteen years ago, and in Duskwoods case, six."

I rose a brow. "Or do you think you were really in control of those places before I came along?"

He looked down, guilty. Jaina spoke on his behalf.

"That was a result of outside influence. Enemies within our circles.'

I shrugged."That may be, but you've lost the peoples trust. Westfall serves the king of Stormwind no longer.

Jaina laughed. "And who would Westfall go to I wonder? A necromancer? Why should we trust you to keep them safe?"

She was focused on the nature of my magic. Interesting.

"Because in four months Ive done more to protect those people than the country they served did for years."

The soldiers behind us, our escort, stomped twice in agreement. Thump. Thump.

"Because a necromancer was the only person with the steel in him to save his people."

Thump. Thump.

"Because unlike some people, I'm willing to make hard choices for the survival of those I care for." She froze, whatever words at her lips catching in her throat.

She knew I was talking about Stratholme.

Arcane power gathered at her fingertips, and for shows sake shadow gathered in my own.

I heard the rasp of steel behind me as the angered people of Westfall readied for blood.

"Enough, Jaina. He has reason to be angry. Stormwind has been remiss in its treatment of the people he represents. "

Varian was surprisingly cool tempered. It seems being human gives you a bit of leeway around him.

"Remiss?!" Ebonlocke sputtered, speaking for the first time. "Remiss he says!"

Ello was not cool tempered.

The lord of Duskwood stomped forward. "We waited for six years for aid! We waited for six years as our children died, as our loved ones rose from the grave, and you claim you were remiss?"

They both leaned back at the fury in the mans words.

In the back of their minds they had been expecting me to speak against them, the rumors and my profession making things clear.

One of the Nobility however, was something else entirely.

"You abandoned you're people!" He pointed at Varian. "You left us to rot as the dead took all we loved from us!"

The king winced at the accusation, but did not fight it. He knew as well as I did, he had been played by Oxynia, and he would be feeling the consequences for years to come.

He roared at the party gathered in front of us. "For years my only hope was that when the scourge took me, there would be enough left of my mind to enjoy the look upon your faces as we destroyed what you held dear!"

"So if the only one who saved us happens to have once been the enemy, if a necromancer happens to be a more worthy king than the one who ruled over us before?"

He turned to Stoutmantel, who nodded at him.

"Than so be it. Long Live Marcus Moonbrook!"

I winked at Jaina as my people chanted behind me.

"Long live Marcus Moonbrook!"


	41. Chapter 41

"Long live Marcus Moonbrook."

That was the first time they called me king. It seems Stoutmantel and Ebonlocke made their decision.

I rose my palm into the air. "Sheath your swords. We did not come here to spill blood today."

I waited for the sound of steel returning to its sheathe. "You abandoned us, left your own countrymen to rot. By all means that should be enough for war."

I looked to the soldiers of Stormwind, finding hesitation in their eyes.

"Yet we come here with good will. For years you recieved no taxes, no wealth from Westfall, or Duskwood. No coin to push towards your war with the Horde."

I let the implication sink in for a moment. "But perhaps, through trade, we may all benefit."

"We have need of weapons, food, and supplies, and now possess all too much coin to pay for it."

I grinned. "The people call out to Stormwind once again for aid."

I looked to Varian Wrynn

"Will it answer?"

He nodded. "It seems we have much to discuss, King Marcus." The nobles whispered amongst themselves at the acknowledgement.

"Indeed. Unfortunately I am no master of matters of State, and in my anger I may say something I regret."

I looked over to Stoutmantel and Ebonlocke. "My advisers will discuss the particulars with you and yours. In the meantime I will be looking around the city."

Without dismissal or leave I strode outside of the meeting.

Five men accompanied me outside the keep.

It was true. My lives as Rick or Felendren gave me little experience in negotiation. I had established myself as a political entity, and now I was hoping to avoid establishing myself as someone to be exploited.

With the two lords of Westfall and Duskwood's loyalty confirmed I saw no reason not to leave the rest up to them.

I needed to establish a shared rule with them if I didn't want the whole country to collapse every time I decided to go on a trip.

My first stop was the mage quarter, where all magic users native to Stormwind plied their trade. It was as beautiful and well kept as anything else within the city.

I traveled down paved roads and got a look at the finest architecture human hands could manage. At a city guards suggestion I found a shop known as Alchemy needs.

On the outside it was a establishment of brick and mortar just like any other building in the city. I left the guards outside.

Interestingly enough the interior of the place was of Elven design, and and at the front counter a night elf looked over a ledger, dipping down to reveal a wonderful amount of cleavage.

She had pale blue skin, and rich green locks of hair fell gently around her shoulders.

"Hello."

She looked up for a moment, surprised. "A customer. Good. Did you want to look around or did you have something in mind?"

I did, in fact. "Trolls blood Elixer."

She nodded, moving towards the back of the store. "How much where you looking for?"

"All of it." A delicate brow rose. "For a personal project."

"I have roughly thirty vials in stock, I had been planning to provide them for the war effort..."

I smiled at her as charmingly as I could. "I'll buy all of them, and If you are willing to have them delivered, I'll take as many as you can send my way."

She frowned. "The ingredients are hard to come by, and they come in several different kinds of potion. Are you su-"

"I'll pay you half again the price for the ones you deliver to me, so long as they arrive intact at Moonbrook in Westfall." Silence greeted me.

I leaned forward, speaking in Darnassian "Do we have a deal?" She looked at me, wide eyed.

I had just offered to buy several months worth of her sales, and for more in the future at a larger price.

"I-it can be arranged." I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes.

"Good, now then, do you have any books on your craft?"

* * *

I walked out of the store a very satisfied customer, carrying a bag with a lot of vials of Trolls blood elixir, and several tomes on various levels of Alchemy.

I motioned the guards to follow me as I made my way further into the mage quarter. This was probably the only time inside the city I wouldn't be heavily watched.

I probably had people following me, but at least the people themselves didn't know me.

I was shown with considerably more reluctance to the Slaughtered Lamb. It was an abandoned tavern, with a local sect of Warlocks underneath it.

The people knew about the place, and accepted the warlocks, so long as the practiced their art in private.

It was also the only place with access to fel magic that I knew of within the Eastern kingdoms.

The Slaughtered Lamb was an imposing, dark building, with broken glass windows and an ominously carved welcome sign.

I left my guards outside once more, this time assuring them I would be fine, and that I was looking for a more acceptable form of magic. In a way it was.

Necromancers almost exclusively served the Scourge, but warlocks existed in sects of varying loyalty all over the world.

So long as they proved themselves useful, they were allowed among the civilized folk.

Especially recently, with the battles in Outland reaching new heights, and experts on demons became more and more of a commodity.

Still, walking inside in broad daylight got me some strange looks.

The bar itself was surprisingly well kept, with clean floors and nice tables for whomever decided to drink there. Probably the warlocks come to think of it.

It was empty with the exception of the barkeep. A gruff, bearded man, covered in scars. I walked across the tavern, before sitting down. "Wine. Elven if you have any."

Old habits die hard. The man passed me over a high-borne vintage surprisingly enough "Eversong Wine" was fancily embroidered on the side.

I waited until I finished my glass before I spoke.

"I'm looking to talk with the warlocks." The man grunted. "Downstairs."

I tossed him a couple of silver coins for his time, before moving on my way.

When I stepped down the stairs, the air grew colder, and the relatively homely interior of the tavern faded as I descended into the cellars below.

Shadows seemed to dance off the walls of the cellar, and I got a look at several dark robbed individuals working around a brazier.

Alchemy tables filled with sizzling liquids and scattered notes littered the area. A tall figure approached me, his hood shadowing his face.

"We've been expecting you Marcus."


	42. Chapter 42

"Have you now?" I think that was meant to put me on edge. Warlocks like the vibe of mystery.

However, knowing who I am and what I'm looking for isn't much of a guess. Necromancer king needs to learn too, and with scourge education out of the picture...

I smirked at him. If he wanted me put off he would need to work harder.

"You come to learn the ways of the warlock. To experience the might of the Fel."

He wasn't wrong.

"Are you willing to pay the price?"

I tilted my head at him "Really? Your talking to me about a potential moral event horizon? I promise you the scourge does worse than whatever some Sanctioned warlocks have gotten up to."

He had the decency to look sheepish for a moment.

I shook my head. "Listen, as far as I understand warlocks take apprentices and assistants, but as I'm a busy man I simply require onE thing."

I pointed to the stack of books and tomes leaning into the corner wall. "Knowledge. I'm willing to part with a considerable amount of coin to get books on every subject you can, and perhaps any personal notes you're willing to part with."

I paused. "I would happen to be willing to hire you, however, if youre willing to come with me back to my laboratory in Moonbrook."

The lead warlock shook his head. "The Alliance needs our expertise for the war, and there is little we wont do to see the legions threat quelled."

His eyes glowed with felfire. "Few understand the true magnitude of the enemy we face,but in the future perhaps we may take you up on that.

His hand stretched out, clasping my own. "You may find we stand with Marcus Moonbrook in the future. In the meantime however," He gestured to a struggling acolyte bringing several tomes forward. "We can bear to part with these."

I reached for my pouch, before he held up his hand. "Free of charge. Consider it an investment from one ambitious man to another."

I nodded. "In that case, Darkbinder, I bear you fare well." The mans seemed surprised for a moment, before he chuckled.

I grabbed the stack of books just before the poor student could drop them all, leaving the group to their dark business.

It was a shame I couldn't bring them into the fold, but I would take whatever they would provide. Fel magic was absolutely neccassary for my whelp, and now that I had it there was no time to waste.

When I made it back outside it was nearly dark, and I decided I had spent enough time in the city. I handed my stack of books to one of my guards, before we made our way back to Stormwind Keep.

* * *

We arrived in time to see Stoutmantel and Ebonlocke leave the keep. They looked dissatisfied.

"Things went well, I hope?" They both nodded. Stoutmantel taking me by the shoulder as we made to find a tavern. "It went better than Westfall has seen in years, thats certain!"

Good. It would be a pain to have to manage this country without any agreements with other factions.

"We managed to negotiate the transport of weapons, armor, and food. We pay full price, but they transport the goods at no cost to us."

Acceptable.

"Another matter was the peasantry. All migrants and homeless, those unable to secure a proper way of living in Stormwind, will be directed to Westfall."

Good.

"And finally, it was made clear we exist as a neutral state, uninvolved with the wars of the Alliance."

Perfect, that was the most important factor. it-"but there was one issue we had to fold on."

"What?"

"We will have to send aid to Outland, as a matter of respect to the Horde and the Alliance, and to preserve the safety of the world at large.

That was... annoying, but not unacceptable. It would put a drain on my resources and soldiers, but it could give an excuse to explore the secrets of that world.

Ebonlocke stepped up to my side as we spoke, whispering so our escort could not hear. "There is a problem."

I motioned for him to continue.

"You will have to marry a noblewoman, or else at the time of your death the country surely will fall back into Stormwinds hands." That left several unfortunate complications.

So people were already asking after my hand.

The way this was leading meant they wanted one of two things, me linked to a family within Stormwind, meaning it would probably become a province following my death.

Or they wanted to stonewall the country by taking away my ability to designate an emergency heir at the time of my death.

Which would be giving them free reign to send an assassin should I refuse to fall in line whenever the horde commits a crime against "The good people of the world."

I nearly laughed, but kept a serious face. If I was human, or mortal by the traditional definition of the word I might have had an issue with that. As it was the country was a convienent means to gather power, both magical and political.

"Very well, I'll look into finding a bride. " It was probably something I would have had to take care of anyway. Still, it was annoying being pushed in that direction.

A wife was expected to meet with the people, interact with her family. Which was all well and good if I wasnt hiding unspeakable horrors in the future basement of my home.

The mixture would help in the immediate future, but it was likely someone would notice the changes, with just the wrong luck things could go poorly for me.

Unfortunately it was either that or find someone who I could be honest with. Unlikely


	43. Chapter 43

From within the cavernous depths of the Deadmines I sat in the center of a ritual circle, several streams of fel energy surrounding me as I tested how it connected to the arcane.

A dying Defias thug moaned out as his life-force was pulled away, easily powering the ritual in my own life-forces place.

Fel was destructive, chaotic energy, it was dangerous in that it warped the flesh and ate at the soul. It was also far more potent than other forms of magic.

It took comparatively little efffort to gather enough fel energy as compared to other fields. There was a reason the most dangerous and often corrupted warlocks where those who had once been mages.

Fel was powerful, and easy to call upon. The only issue was using it for anything subtle.

Still, I had a feeling Felendren would have been an unnatural talent in it, as I was now it was absolutely captivating how far I had come in so short a time.

The past few weeks have been a nice vacation from the outside world.

When we returned to Westfall, I left Ebonlocke and Stoutmantel in Sentinel Hill to rule over the land while I studied magic.

I grimly told them I was preparing for a journey to Outland, and that I needed the time to ready myself.

In a way I was telling the truth.

Our forces had little to spare for any war effort.

We had recently directed the majority of our fighting men and the remainder of my harvest golems to Duskwood to clear out the undead and worgen once and for all.

Which meant whatever was sent beyond the dark portal would be far too little. I had volunteered personally, seeing the opportunity for what it was. Outland was dangerous, but it had knowledge and artifacts of untold power.

Only if I was powerful enough to take them however. I would need strength to gather what Outland had to offer, and strength to prove my country something to take seriously.

If Westfall proved itself weak in a matter of worldly peril the other factions would take note.

My people had taken it as a personal sacrifice, their noble lord willing to risk himself so others would not have to.

Volunteers to the military had been coming in droves.

Over the past month I had been studying fel magic, and helping to prepare the gnolls for their transition into my personal soldiers.

The inscriptions had come along nicely, but I still needed to prepare golem cores and armor for most of them.

I had used one of my own personal cores, and a little of the Goblins time to complete one.

The gnoll once known as Hogger stood behind me, clad in iron plate carved in hundreds of enchanting runes to both keep the metals integrity, and animate it.

He was eight feet of muscle and cold rage, covered from head to toe in armor more commonly seen on a knight than the savages of the wilds. Due to a mistake in the crafting process, the upper skull of the creature was replaced with metal.

From behind the iron eye sockets of the creature a muted and murky green glow softly emerged. In its hands a well crafted battle axe, large even for him, was held easily in one hand.

I had named him First-Hunt, out of relative respect to gnoll custom. I would be taking him with me from now on, as a test to his potential as a warrior.

I had little doubt he would be a force to be reckoned with.

Unfortunately not everything was going so perfectly.

I opened one eye as a blood mage walked through the door. "Apologies my lord, but it is as you predicted."

I sighed, absorbing the energy floating about the room, already knowing what he meant. "The dragon has progressed as well as we could have imagined, but it is growing more and more unstable."

That dragon was what was going to win me Outland if I had anything to say about it, but it was not without cost.

I had been going through every kind of magic I had on hand with the it. Since the day I had brought it with me we had been meticulously putting it through the most ambitious magic gauntlet we could put together.

We had started with the arcane, carving hundreds of sigils into its bones, tearing the flesh from the dragon and then healing it when our work was complete.

These where to increase the durability of its bones, and saturate it with magic known to have a level of control over all other forms.

Once we had covered the entirety of its skeleton in the script we began using chronomancy and blood magic to force its growth, before we began on the next round of inscriptions to be used.

Necromancy and voodoo where carved in equal measure to its flesh and its newly expanded and healed skeleton, now as individual ritual markers to properly hold necrotic and spiritual energy.

Several blood runes where added along its spine, as a matter to passively ease healing and self sacrificial magic.

We made certain to carve several sigils of custom make along the skull and between each inscription to make every change seamless and interconnected.

Most recently we used fel runes, added as ritual aid and protection from malign mutation.

We had only recently added power to the non growth related symbols, and it was already coming undone before hand.

Which meant we would be using up the trolls blood elixir very soon, and considering the rate of which the dragon was already falling apart meant I needed to leave immediately.

I had not spent weeks of effort and thousands of gold in magical reagents to have a magical pile of flesh the size of two cart horses. A stabilizing factor was needed.

I stood up. "Ready the ship then, we have no time to lose."

It seems its time I went home.


	44. Chapter 44

My voice rang out across the cove "I want everyone who can manipulate even the barest hint of mana on that ship within the next hour."

In an instant the scatterred researchers and workers ran off, grabbing whatever supplies they deemed necessary for the trip.

I stopped a blood mage as he frantically gathered some notes.

"Send a golem to Sentinel hill with a message that I'm departing to Quel'Thalas on a diplomatic mission. Add something about gaining better standing with the Horde."

I stepped off the ship, making my way to the tunnels, and for the room we had cleared for the whelp I had captured.

It was a large, open chamber with ritualistic symbols carves into the walls, floors, and ceiling. The chamber itself was around a third of the size of the cove.

Inside Nyssa Stormheart and two bloodmages channeled healing magic into the slumbering form of my whelp.

However it wasn't a whelp anymore.

In the relatively short few weeks since we acquired it, the whelp had grown into a particularly large drake.

Its hide was covered in several glowing sigils of varying colors, each thrumming with power.

The drake was dangerously thin for its size, and the scarring covering it had hinted at the abuse we had committed upon it.

Most notably the flesh along the right side of its face was torn away in large sections, and several jagged teeth shown through the ruins of its cheek.

It was nowhere near completion, but even still I could feel the sheer magnitude of magic it exuded. A dragons natural strength in magic enhanced several times over.

I held the rotten hand of my original body in front of my face. It was strange to have grown this far from what I was.

This would be the last time I found myself in this body. In any flesh other than that of the creature just in front of me.

Assuming my plan was a success of course.

The flesh of the drake would rot off in a manner not dissimilar from how my original body had, if I failed.

That wouldn't happen though. I had put too much resources into seeing this through, too much of my studies into building the creature in front of me.

I had only really just begun.

I kneeled in front of my new body, before releasing myself from the undead form I had possessed. Black smoke poured from my flesh, and soon I was looking at myself kneeling before the drake.

Without the protective covering of flesh I felt the magic of the room whirling around me, pouring into the drake.

A dragon was naturally a creature of magic, and a creature of will. I had increased ones power, and in the process tortured it for weeks now.

The few times it had been conscious it was filled with rage and pain. This was why I hadn't possessed it already. In a way I was afraid of what would happen.

By mortal standards I was strong willed, but dragons where not mortal. There was a reason no banshee or specter had attempted to possess one before.

Possessing something was a struggle of pure willpower, it was suppressing the mind of a creature and stealing its body for your own.

Dragons where conscious and ever living whirlwinds of power.

That was why I was here. That was why I had decided I would be doing more than possessing it.

Like possession, rituals and magic were expressions of will. In magic I was willing my mana to take a particular form and shape, manipulating different energies for different effects.

In the kind of rituals I would soon be undertaking it would be the same, but far, far worse. I needed the kind of will a dragon would have.

I was not possessing this dragon.

The blackened smoke that took up my undead form flowed into the dragons mouth just as its eyes opened for the first time in days.

Once I was inside its mind, the first thing I noticed was agony. Pain on such a scale even I, a specter who made a pastime of self torture, nearly screamed at.

Every inch of the dragon's being was burning as the magic and Trolls blood elixir barely kept it together.

Every portion of my body felt as if it was being torn apart and bathed in acid.

The second thing I noticed was a mental blow unlike anything I had felt before.

Whenever I was in another beings mind I was almost always on the attack, but from the instant I entered its conscious I was on the defensive.

I was almost immediately suppressed under the dragons almost infinite rage and pain, pushed back just like my victims often were.

It fought me even as it weakly rose up, readying to attack my slaves.

My counter attack was the only thing that kept it from burning them all alive. Instead of trying to suppress the dragon like it had me I dove into its mind, pulling its soul into my own.

A thousand instincts I didn't recognize flowed through me in an instant, and six months of memories filled my mind.

From when I first became aware within my egg, to the day my disappointed and saddened mother sent me away to die inside that swamp, sickly and with only my brothers and sisters to keep me company.

I remember when I was captured, when some mage took me away and tortured me for reasons I was only now beginning to understand. Power.

Power that I now had. Power that I had captured the whelp I once was for. I felt the chaos of three souls slowly coming together into one being.

I managed to sluggishly drag myself to the ship, my reeling soul and mind barely coming around to formulate a unified thought.

Sleep took me moments later.


	45. Chapter 45

I awoke to the sound of seagulls and the smell of salt on the air. It seems we have already set sail.

The pain was considerably more managable with my new state of being, it had seemed unbearable to the dragon I was before, and to the specter I was.

Now it was easily put to the back of my mind, an annoyance and nothing more.

I was still a specter, in a way, but my situation had changed considerably. I had a link to this body.

It was a part of my being now, the price of merging with a living soul. If the body died my soul would remain as it would before, but I was bound.

I could not leave. Still, why would I want to. There were three factors one had to consider in magical power.

The strength of a beings will, the natural ability of the soul to produce magic, and the ability of the body to do the same.

I had just drastically increased all three. The only issue was the stability of my vessel.

A beings body was not designed to be artificially tampered with, and the manner I was doing so was particularly dangerous, even for a dragon like me.

I rose up, stretching for the first time since I had been captured. A series of pops echoed around me, and I let out a sigh of relief.

I attempted a step forward, stumbling lightly for a moment, then collapsing. I was unfamiliar with my form as it was now.

Several years of growth all at once was a stark change. I felt strong, stronger than I had ever been, yet so very weak.

They had not fed me since my capture, as a means of keeping me as stable as possible during the countless surgeries I had wrought upon myself.

I was hungrier than I had ever been in any lifetime, and it was made worse by the knowledge I could not eat until my task was done.

Weeks without food was one thing, weeks without food while my body was forcibly grown was another thing entirely. It was almost as bad as the pain was.

A quick flex of my wings brought up even more bad news. They were weak, both from lack of muscle-mass, and from the sigils now carved upon my flesh.

I could not fly without fear of tearing at the already vulnerable and bleeding flesh.

Flexing my magic however was another thing entirely. It felt as if a whole new world was available to me.

I was not yet complete, but the magic I could now throw around casually could easily have killed me in the past.

I sniffed, smelling the perfection that was thousands of fish swimming about around and under my ship. I extended my magic outward.

Life energy emerged from the water moments later, before it drained away into my body, closing several wounds that had reopened with my movement.

I could not eat them, but they had their uses.

I stood up once again, this time taking several steps forward, several members of the crew moved to help me, but a snarl kept them away.

I flexed my wings again, stretching them outward before giving them a few flaps. It was a shame to spend so long bound to the earth, unable to fly.

It was worse knowing I could, but that it would tear my wings apart.

Perhaps it would be best to avoid my draconian form until I had properly healed.

i focused on the mana flowing throughout my body, closing my eyes and grasping at the whisper of a memory.

My mother, transforming into an elf for the first time in front of me, smiling down on my healthy kin. Not even looking at me as I strained to do the same.

I felt my wings recede, my scales turn into smooth elven flesh, my scars disappear, everpresent but hidden from view.

When I opened them again I Felendren for the first time since I succumbed to addiction.

I felt considerably more tender and exposed. Shapeshifting was not an illusion, for all intents and purposes I was now an elf.

Easily harmed, easily surprised. Instinctually I knew I could change back in the blink of an eye, or partially change back if needed.

It was still a danger, still a way for me to be beaten. I slowly walked forward, ignoring the darts of pain shooting up my body as I moved.

A simple robe appeared around me, formed of arcane magic in the same manner food could be.

I looked over the deck of my ship, the zombified deckhands tending to our sails, and the overseeing forms of several necromancers.

I watched as Antheol looked across the ship at me, quickly jotting down some notes in a booklet he was holding.

I watched as a bloodmage studied an arcane tome on the creation of golems.

My eyes eventually fell on Nyssa Stormheart, the night elf I had captured so many months ago, flirting lightly with Ralen.

I smiled, before I stalked down the stairs, approaching them both from behind as they looked out onto the beautiful ocean, just as the Sun was readying to set.

My hands snaked around her waist, coming together around her toned stomach. "Ralen!" she gasped out, leaning into me.

Ralen looked back to me, his eyes shadowing for a moment, before he made to get back to work.

"Stay." I called out to him, as one of my hands rose upwards, groping at her breast. Nyssa froze as she realized what was going on, not fighting but no longer leaning into me as strongly.

"How long have you two been seeing each other?" Ralen frowned. "Since a month into our original departure my lord."

It seems my time possessing Ralen had brought them close.

I smirked, my other hand sliding down Nyssa's navel and into her pants. "Good for you two."

I bit at her shoulder lightly, and listened to her try and hold back a moan as my fingers danced.

A tug tore away the loose fur top she had been wearing, exposing her large breasts with a bounce.

The hand that had been exploring her withdrew, before pulling her pants down to her knees.

I was inside her in another moment, watching he gasp out for more as I enjoyed the privilege of a body of my own.

I quickly shoved her into the railing, before I plowed her, her lover watching as I established who she really belonged to.

Nyssa screamed out, her perfect breasts visible even from behind, and her pillow-like ass bouncing as I thrust into her.

I think I'm going to enjoy being a dragon.


	46. Chapter 46

I spent most of our time at sea sleeping or enjoying the pleasure of Nyssa and the rangers company while I waited for my thoughts to grow less conflicted.

I had absorbed the whelp I once was to grant myself will, and a natural connection to my own flesh.

Three sets of memories, even if one was only a child, was still difficult to processs.

Thoughts for the first few weeks came out jumbled and conflicting, often forcing me to take several minutes just to decide the right way to walk about my ship.

Things like sex where easier, instinct and urge coming together much more naturally than my thoughts were.

It was different than when I had first merged with Felendren.

Whatever force that brought Rick and Felendren together had focused on binding them tightly into the same frame of mind.

It seems the merge somewhat loosened that binding, leaving four separate, but interconnected beings.

The dragon, Rick, Felendren, and what we were becoming.

We spent several weeks coming to that conclusion. It was decided the most apt way to solve the problem was to form an identity to unify behind.

The dragon we were supposed to be would have to be the dominant force, its inctincts and natural control over the body neccassary for future success.

Ricks ambition, and imagination was to be reinforced by Felendren's talent in magic.

The combined memories and experience of the two ambitious mortals where piled behind the dragons already impressive will, giving it the foundation it needed to grow.

Nothing was discarded or left to waste. Everything had a place in the being, carefully selected by the shadow of each soul under the unified pretense of ambition, power, and magic.

Much argument was had over every detail, from how much was to be focused on personal and political power, to when foes would be challenged.

Eventually an accord was struck, and three souls grew closer, my thoughts breaking into seperate directions less and less as time went on.

A name was decided, the personification of our unity. A dragons name, to represent both what I am, and what the whelp I once was never had.

"Malius". I whispered to my self. Dark son in the green dragon dialect. A taunt to those who abandoned me.

The moment I said it I felt the change, draconic names have power. To say a dragons name invoked them, they could feel the call from across the world if it was done right.

That was probably how Oxynia had been revealed, and ultimately killed. Someone who knew the truth called out to her, and unable to control herself she took her true form right in the middle of Stormwind.

It had been nearly a year and a half since I had a name that was honestly my own. It felt good. More than good in fact.

I never realized how much I needed a proper identity until now.

It all clicked into place moments later, the misshapen puzzle pieces of my soul coming together fully. I took my first breath, taking in the ocean air.

I walked forward, my steps taken without conflict or disarray as I approached the side of my ship. I laughed, the world seeming so much clearer.

My nose twitched at the smell of death, and the sound of ocean birds in the distance. We were close.

My old home of Quel'Thalas was so close I could smell the magic in the air.

"Drop Anchor and ready the boats!"

The darkened, cloudy sky and death on the air meant we were just out of sight of the Ghostlands. Good.

This was not a diplomatic mission, though I'm sure the Elves will appreciate the end result of our actions over the coming days.

The zombies were left on the ship, and the neutral trade flag common among pirates and goblin traders was taken down as every magic user I had boarded several row boats.

I had first hunt, Nyssa and the gnolls on my ship, while the others boarded in separate groups. We rowed towards the distant shadow of land, where I knew only the undead awaited us.

The undead had probably been pushed completely out of Eversong, leaving the Sin'Dorei to rebuild their lands, but also giving the undead a chance to dig in and gather their forces.

If the scourge was smart they also sent several dozen necromancers and a couple thousand of the more advanced undead as reinforcements from the Plaguelands.

The province itself was probably far more dangerous than it was the last time I had been here, but then so was I.

We were here to conduct a ritual that would stabilize my body, and give me the strength to overpower the horrors of this world.

With this small group of thirty magic casters I was going to wage war on the Scourge, test my power against real threats, and finally ascend into real strength.

I had been holding back on truly using my magic at the risk of accelerating my own destruction, but now that I was here there was nothing to lose.

I would either find what I was looking for, or lose what I had built. I was excited, I could feel my inscriptions burn as I readied my magic.

We reached the shore nearly an hour later, and I killed the undead murlocs who charged out at us with a wave of my hand and a blast of felfire.

I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the pain that came up to greet my use of magic.

I was going to burn this whole fucking world down.


	47. Chapter 47

The Ghostlands was just as awful as I remembered it, a massive forest of dead trees and rotten land, constantly in a state of dusk not unlike Duskwood.

Now there was just more undead roaming the place. Enough that I was actually worried about what the main horde would look like.

Most of the Scourge should be either along the dead scar, or inside the dark fortress of Deathholme. Our boats had landed us on the southern portion of the Ghostlands coast.

We avoided the ruins of Windrunner village as we moved inland, a place with quite a bit of history, populated with the ghosts of my people. Eventually we found our path.

I let First-hunt take the lead. He made a marvelous show of things.

An large battle axe swung with frightening speed, hewing ghoul, zombie, and skeleton alike as we made our way down an elven road.

My body guard was not skilled or practiced, but he was strong, fast, and brutal. Ocassionaly a few too many undead approached at once, their blows hitting the gnoll before he could cut them down.

He barely reacted, his battle plate absorbing the damage, only taking light scratches from the rusted and broken weapons the undead weilded mindlessly.

Once a luck zombie managed to slip his guard, and plant a broken sword into his side, before a gauntleted backhand tore the head from its body.

It took quite a bit of work to get the undead gnoll and the golem he was wearing to work in tandem, but once I was able to link the two the affect was immediate.

Perhaps Hogger was simply that impressive of a gnoll, or perhaps my design was better thought out than I imagined, but either way I felt we would have a marvelous time together.

I smiled as a hand reached out, crushing the skull of a skeleton warrior and his helmet at once, before the remains were tossed into a crowd of charging ghouls, scattering several of the creatures.

Marvelous indeed. We traveled down the road for two hours, allowing my new favorite minion to slaughter his way through the directionless Scourge in our path.

The first real test was when we closed in on a ziggurat situated on a hill, with streams of energy stretching outward towards where I knew Deathholme to be.

An abomination, empowered by the ziggurat and far more dangerous than the chaff we encountered thus far stomped down the road, I could feel the ground shake lightly with its every step.

It was massive, even for one of its kind, nearly twenty feet tall and wielding a hook in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. The moment its eye locked upon us it charged, thundering down the road towards us.

"Kill!" it yelled out, its voice childishly excited. First-hunt answered with his own charge, meeting the abomination just before it could reach the rest of us.

I channeled power into my gnoll, making certain my investment would not be easily beaten. His murky green eyes glowed even more brightly, and the inscriptions on his armor shined.

He stopped just short of the abomination, swinging upward and catching the blow of it's cleaver, tearing it from the beasts grasp and into the dying grass behind them.

The abominations hook caught along his pauldron at the same time, tearing it from my guards armor. The gnoll's axe met its knee moments later, breaking the stitched together limb and forcing a howl out of his opponent.

"Hurts!" yelled out the abomination as it collapsed slightly, held up only by its other leg, bringing it closer to my gnoll.

First hunt drew the axe back, before he let his weapon fly directly into the skull of the abomination, cleaving deeply into its head.

It froze for a moment, before laughing as one of its hands grasped my gnolls blade with one hand, its other shooting out and wrapping around my gnoll before he could react.

It ripped the axe out, before it readied to swing against my now defenseless creation.

A bolt of shadowed flame met its head moments later. I sighed as the abomination collapsed and my bodyguard ripped his weapon from the now dead abominations hand.

I would have to work on his response to different kinds of monsters. Anything but decapitation was usually only superficial damage to the undead.

Still, he had done well, taking minimal damage and immobilizing a foe to better slay it. If he had done that to a living creature I would have found this trail to be a resounding success.

I turned to the ziggurat situated on the hill, before I directed my party towards it, this time with me taking the lead.

I entered the dark construction with a thin shield of magical power in front of me, taking several shadowbolt to it as the Darkmages within defended one of the power sources to the Scourge in the area.

Lightning and flame came from behind me as my slaves attacked, killing the living servants of the scourge before they could properly shield themselves.

Inside the ziggurat was a small room surrounding a pool of viscous green liquid, and above it hovered the crystal core of the ziggurat.

I reached out to the magic, humming to myself as I remembered the last time I was in this land, looking at a crystal just like this.

My magic curled around the crystal, before it cut off the flow of energy entirely. I looked to First-hunt, and with a small application of will he secured his axe to his back and grasped at the crystal.

His gauntlets sizzled at the contact, but he took the crystal from its place, and together we departed, making for the twin of this crystal, lodged within the ziggurat on the hill just opposite of this one, past the dead scar.

The great road of rot that was the dead scar was completely empty, without a single minion of the Scourge in sight.


	48. Chapter 48

There was a special kind of concern that comes with knowing something horrible should be somewhere, and finding it absent.

The undead not left to meander the Ghostlands and wreak chaos were gone. A look to the gates of Deathholme in the distance showed them closed and barred. Several Wraiths watched out from atop the walls.

Which meant the Ghostlands had not been reconquered, not in itself a surprise with how Deathholme has authority over the passage to the Plaguelands.

However, the lack of attackers constantly streaming from those gates meant the scourge was up to something. From what my senses told me the ward wall keeping intruders out of Eversong had grown considerably stronger.

Perhaps the amount of magic needed to breach the walls was too much for constant assault, and now the Scourge had decided to muster its forces instead of send them out in waves.

Which was why I had taken a temporary break in my mission to find that out. The bleeding ziggurat was on the way to my destination, and had an objective for me anyway.

"Why arent Scourge forces assaulting Silvermoon?"

The terrified form of one of the darkmages defending the ziggurat bled underneath me, the cooling corpses of his allies littered the chamber we waited in.

I had a knife to his throat, and a few too many draconic teeth showing through my grin.

My whisper was sickeningly sweet."You don't wanna play with us no more?" The Elves werent my people any more, not truly, but I would hate to see them get destroyed by anything other than me.

The mans already pale complexion grew even whiter.

"T-they didn't tell us what was going on, only that they were drawing forces back. We received reinforcements-" About what I had expected then, I readied to push the knife into his throat and move on.

"From Northrend." I stopped. That could be bad news.

"Why?"

He shook his head. "Some political dispute. Lord Dar'Khan Drathir was singled out for allowing an infiltrator to escape with traitors, A servant to the blood-queen, some old rival from before their service to the Scourge has assumed control of Deathholme."

The darkmage smirked. "And the right to conquer and rule Silvermoon in the Lich Kings name."

That **was** bad news. I pushed the knife into his throat, watching him gurgle as his life drained away.

He stood up a moment later, before taking hold of the crystal floating above us.

As we walked outside I thought on the situation. Northrend was where the worst of the Scourge resided, and if what that man said was true I would need to move quickly.

Darkfallen elves. The closest thing to vampires this world has to offer. Drathir was a problem on his own, but with a San'layn in the picture I was in real danger.

The kind of magic I would need to beat something like that and Dar'Khan at the same time was likely to tear me apart, and to hold back would spell the death of my body, and enslavement.

Unacceptable. I had planned on taking my time, perhaps a few days, but now it was clear I needed this done now.

We departed the Howling Ziggurat with haste.

Eventually we passed the ruins of some dead elf's estate, following a path I knew would lead me to Zul'Aman.

We passed hundreds of dead beings as we made our way to the capital of Amani territory, both unmoving or otherwise.

I had forced the Amani to break their pact to the Scourge, and it seems they retaliated. The mummified remains of dozens of Amani warriors piled the earth alongside their considerably fresher brethren.

The fact not all of the corpses had been risen before we arrived, and that several of the undead nearby seemed determined to kill each other, meant the Amani were still putting up a fight.

With a small application of will over the crystals I was able to raise the corpses we passed, and steal the will from local undead. We kept this process up for the three hour walk to our destination.

By the time we reached the ruins of the Amani village of Zeb'nowa, where the first living Amani I had seen resided, I had gathered around two thousand followers.

I let the trolls salvaging the ruins escape down the road, raising yet more minions as we passed. Zul'Aman was a temple-city, and a walled fortress. It was a city-state, the gathered power of the entire empire.

Still,the Amani had probably been hard pressed to defend themselves, especially as of late.

An army like the one I had raised was a threat to be taken seriously, even if it was all but impossible for the undead they saw to have any success in an assault.

This was far too small to be an attacking army, but its presence meant a possible Scourge march. To the Amani it practically screamed "advance force."

For all they know I had a hundred thousand monsters just behind this menagerie. It was exactly the kind of fear I wanted them to have.

When we reached the walls of the city arrows already rained from the sky, and I could see several magic users readying themselves.

It was quite the fortress, with walls over ten feet in height, somewhat resembling human design, and natural defences in the form of several steep rocky hills intermingled with the walls.

I charged the undead in front of me with fully half of the collected energies within one of the crystals, powering them as much as I could without causing them to combust.

I had the undead charge ahead of us, before I had my group conceal themselves in the treeline.

I focused the assualt on a relatively small section of the wall, gathering as much focus as I could on one point. I turned to my slaves, forcing myself back into the form of a drake.

We stalked along the edges of view, traveling around the wall and to a tower where the corner of the walls sorrounding the city could be seen.

"Wait until my signal." I called out, as my deceptively agile form bounded through the darkness, keeping myself low as I charged across the field.

I relied on the muted green of my scales to keep me from the distracted view of the trolls manning the walls.

When I was close enough I lept outward, flapping my wings once to help me gain distance.

I snarled as the wounds on them reopened.

My claws sank easily into the stone, the sound just barely audible beneath the din of combat.


	49. Chapter 49

I smelled five trolls atop the tower that made up the intersection in the walls. From what I could tell a smattering of others manned the walls to the sides.

None of them reacted to me slowly making my way upward, the urge to watch the battle too strong for them to really watch for anyone climbing the walls.

I stopped just before I reached the top of the battlements, my claws just lower than the parapet. I drew myself back, tensing the powerful but malnourished muscles of my body.

I pulled myself over in an instant, one of my claws grasping around the head of a troll, ripping it off before he could react. By the time the others turned around I had killed my second victim, tearing his throat out with my teeth as I passed him by.

I killed a third by grasping his tunic, and biting his head off as I tossed him off the wall behind me. My claws closed around the throats of the last two before either of them could let out a scream.

I looked at the two poor guards, a grin coming across my scarred reptillian face. They looked surprised to see me. I crushed both their throats, before I descended into the tower.

I killed a few more trolls inside, making certain to handle them as quickly and as quitely as I could. It was gloriously bloody.

When the tower was clear, and I had closed and barred all the doors, I looked out the window, catching the smell of my slaves in the distance.

I'd be able to see them too if they werent hiding behind the treeline. This form had a number of physical advantages I could not stress enough.

Even with the weakness that comes from malnutrition I was a dangerous predator, and with the inscriptions even now burning into my skin and my bones ,I was beyond strong in magic.

An average green drake me be faster or stronger than I am now, but while the amount of magic it could draw on was considerable, it was nothing compared to what I could do.

It would take an adult dragon to surpass what I was currently magically capable of, as far as I could tell. I could only imagine how well the runes and inscriptions improve as I age.

This trip was a test in more ways than it was a manner in which to solve the slow destruction of this body. I extended a single claw into the ground, carving out a trench in the stone.

I carved in the relative calm of the tower, inscribing a series of symbols into the floor as the battle began to lull and the army I had brought along lost its unwinnable battle.

When I drew back the circle I was constructing took up nearly half the room I easily fit inside. A small incantation saw the blood pooling around my victims pull itself along the floor, filling the lines of my ritual circle perfectly.

When all had been gathered within a pushed my mana inside it, watching as the room was bathed in a muted green glow, before it immediately darkened into a crimson as the blood took affect.

It was a magical signal, calling out to the spirits of the land, and the spirits of the dead. A combination of Voodoo and Druidic magic.

I felt the already decaying and corrupted spirits of the land scream out as I drew upon them, followed by the souls of those who had died here.

Those Witch-doctors within the city would quickly notice how the land around them was suddenly void of the spirits they relied so much upon for their magics.

I was using every last one to power my spell.

It was a mass summoning. A play on the spell matrix that had brought me this far. I slammed a scaled arm on the center of the circle, and I felt the forest around me truly die, the land itself suddenly drying into a husk.

The inscriptions on my arm glowed, and I felt the flesh on my arm burn as I finished my work.

A tide of darkness surrounded the city, and screams erupted all around me as the blackened mist that now invaded the whole of this settlement did its gruesome task.

Hundreds of trolls yelled out in pain, dying as thousands of spectral claws descended upon them, hundreds more found themselves corralled back into their homes, forcibly pushed to where they couldn't get in my way.

Only the witch doctors and the greatest of the warriors would be able to intervene now.

I stood up, taking a moment to recover and take account for the damage I just did to myself, before I briefly flashed a simple light spell.

I listened as my servants made their way across the field, drawing on the remains of the blood around me to force vines to grow along the wall as they approached.

As they came to me I readied myself for the battles to come. This place was my playground now, but the foes I was now seeking out were dangerous.

The Loa of the Amani were bound here, and I was taking everything they had to give.

The wild gods had control over the nature of the people that worshiped them. The trolls, legendary for their regenerative powers, could have them taken away by their gods.

Or they could have them enhanced a thousand fold. Their power would be **mine**.

I had personally inscribed the ritual runes on my form for that very purpose.

Within the shadowed mists that now covered the whole of Zul'Aman, a dragon hunted _gods._


	50. Chapter 50

How does one consume a god?

The answer is surprisingly simple. piecemeal.

Within the walls of this city where five wild gods. Every one of them bound to a troll deemed worthy of their power.

But not all of their power. It was Zul'jin who had the lions share. From what Tim has told me on the matter half of the gods power was delegated to the champions of the trolls, and half to their leader.

He had collectively four gods bound to his soul, empowering him into something more than mortal.

The fifth was wholly given to the priest who organized it all, though what loa he bound to himself remains to be seen.

We stalked through the darkness of the city with purpose, hunting those who held the power I desired. I knew where they where, I just had to pay attention to where my wraiths where dieing the most.

I felt them being dispersed in droves, their connections to my mind being severed by the hundred.

A quick climb ontop of a particularly large tree within the city revealed where the defenders where being rallied.

The trolls I happend to be hunting for each kept to areas dedicated to the god they betrayed for power, and centered around those areas where four steadily growing clearings in the "mist".

I jumped down, landing lightly on the soft earth below. I motioned my party to follow me to the nearest champion.

We passed a mixture of huts and stone buildings seamlessly meshed throughout the city proper, looking to countless carvings dedicated to the worship of the pantheon of Loa the Amani served.

"Nalorakk..." Ti'swena whispered to himself, his shoulders dropping as he spoke the name.

From what I understand he hadnt appreciated the treatment the Loa had received before he had been delegated to die somewhere in Eversong.

A number of carvings resembling a mighty bear were inscribed into the stone effigies around us.

Eventually we found ourselves at the foot of a large altar, nearly a temple in and of itself, watching through the shadows as trolls waved torches into the clawing forms of the wraiths I had summoned.

The warriors that hadn't been caught off guard by my little surprise had been doing well for themselves.

Once they began to understand the nature of the mist that sorrounded them they began to take action.

Hundreds of warriors stood in small formations of a around a dozen, clad in some form of plate and shielding each other from the grasping claws of my spectral minions.

From the temple itself I heard I bestial roar. "Hold em back, whateva they are, they're weak!" The voice was rough and growiling. "Thin out dey ranks and we'll be fine!"

I suppose he was right, my wraiths were a little weak for the task ahead of them.

With that in mind I reached out with one arm, extending my claws towards a group of trolls defending their homes, wielding tomahawks in one hand, and torches in the other.

They all withered and collapsed, green life energy fleeing from their forms and into me.

They died before they could even make a sound, reanimating as the undead before they even finished falling to the ground.

Their forms slowed disappeared into the mist, dropping their torches and marching off towards the nearest living creatures, which just so happens to be their old allies.

I repeated the process thrice more, forcing the zombified trolls to gather together, and surround several other groups. I closed me eyes and listened once they grew far enough away for even my sight.

The sounds of trolls screaming as their friends surrounded and tore them apart was almost musical, perhaps it would have been if not for the ever increasing burns on my flesh.

Of course I wasn't the only one who heard them dying.

Several other formations closed in on their position, catching glimpses of their friends being eaten through the wraiths around them.

I led my party through the darkness, up the stair case and above the worst of the fighting.

A few guards tried to stop us as we made our way past, but the combined spellfire of my strange assortment of followers took them down.

At the top of the almost pyramid-like altar our quarry waited for us. It was a massive troll, with size and muscles more suited to an ogre than one of its kind.

He had to be at least ten feet tall.

The head of a bear sat on its broad shoulders, with two tusks emerging from its slobbering maw. "So, you must be da cause of all dis commotion." He let out a guttural laugh "I expected de scourge."

His eyes fell on each member of our party, confusion clear as day. "A dragon comes into our city, and with slaves of our own make no less."

He looked over to Tim. "Ti'Swena, you gonna have a lot of explaining to do when we free ya."

His eyes locked with my own. "Lucky I don't have a witch doctor nearby, drake, or I'd have a feeling we wouldn't be having this conversation."

It was true, I was taking a lot of risk in seeing this through, but I only needed one success to finish the work myself.

If I lost my servants here it would be a shame, but I had them write down all they had learned and gathered from our time together, it would be an acceptable trade off.

"I suppose not, troll, but its time I took my prize." I stepped forward, half the trolls height on all fours.

He didn't look too worried about us coming to blows.

Two large glowing tomahawks rose up, and the bears face twisted into something like a smirk. "Neva killed a dragon before."

He charged at me, covering the ground between us with speed I wouldn't have been able to follow before my transformation.

My claw rose up in a flash, raking across my own chest. My attacker slowed for a moment, confusion dawning, before his eyes widened and he came to a halt.

"No!" He said with dawning horror.

The blood pouring from my chest immediately began to form around us in the shape of a gigantic circle, quickly taking the characteristics of a ritual I had practiced hundreds of times.

My servants ran around us, taking places on individual circles surrounding the main array.

I lept onto the trolls back as he turned, sinking my claws into his thick hide while he tried to escape the circle, using my weight to keep him inside the bounds of my ritual.

The form of the troll shifted as we fought, becoming that of a massive brown bear. It slammed into the ground with enough force to nearly knock over a few of my servants as the readied themselves.

The force tore me from the beasts back, freeing it to move, but it was too late.

Chanting rose up around us, the bloody inscriptions glowing as my project began to finally come together.

The full weight of the bear slammed into an invisible wall, and it uselessly clawed at the forces keeping it inside.

From outside the form of First hunt, and the dark mage I had killed rose their crystals into the sky, letting the ritual take on the power of the Ziggurats.

My servants began to pour their combined mana inside the circle, and I joined them even as the bear turned, slamming into me now.

I fought for the first time as the smaller beast in a physical contest, channeling mana even as the bear tore into my right arm.

I snapped uselessly at it's ear as it broke my limb, snarling in pain as it's paw dug into my rib cage.

The smoke covering the city rose up as the forms of the wraiths I had summoned began to draw into the circle as well, forming a tornado of darkness around the position my ritual was being cast.

The blood runes kept my heart beating and my body fighting even as massive jaws wrapped around my throat, breaking my neck and seizing most of the flesh that came attached to it.

The fel runes lit up as they recognized the power suddenly pouring into me. The arcane runes helped them to absorb the energy.

It was the Voodoo and Necromatic inscriptions that helped the most, reaching into the corrupted specter that was my soul and connecting my to my opponent.

I wildly swung with my claws, tearing out the bears eye even as it ripped my other arm from its place on my body, taking advantage of the fragile nature of my form.

As we fought, the bear weakened, growing smaller as the strength behind it faded away.

I watched as the being turned back into a troll, screaming out "No! No! You can't do this!" as the power began to drain more rapidly.

I watched as the head of a bear slowly faded into the ugly face of some troll champion who had thought to name himself after a god and steal it's power.

I let out a gurgling laugh through the remains of my throat as that troll grew skinnier and skinnier, before wasting away into nothing as his life joined that of the master he betrayed.

I collapsed as my body stopped responding to my commands, the magic tearing it apart taking its toll.

As the chanting faded, and I looked out to the stunned forms of what remained of the trolls guard, I died once again.

For a moment, all that remained of the dragon Malius, who had ambition above all others, was a pile of rapidly decaying flesh, supercharged with magic.

The guards, frightened and confused of what had just happened, stepped forward, readying to kill those who had struck down the avatar of a god.

As my own servants began to lose hope, as failure and false love rose up inside them the blood twitched, bubbled, and rose up.

Enemy and slave alike watched in horrified wonder as gore and blood came together, mixing together and growing larger and larger, taking up more and more space and forcing those surrounding the circle to back away as it grew.

First bones came together, than flesh, nerves, and finally scales.

Trolls stepped back in horror at the sight of a dragon rising up, its eyes a burning glow of purple, now focusing on them.

Pale armored plates covered red softly glowing flesh beneath them. The entire city watched as its wings spread, the beast now nearly the size of the Altar it stood upon.

It's lips drew back, revealing rows of shark-like teeth, before breathing in, the sound echoing across a city that was now in perfect silence.

It's roar could be heard across the whole of the Ghostlands.


	51. Chapter 51

I rose up from the remains of the ritual I had wrought. Months of effort and study by masters of several different crafts.

The power I had gained from the bear loa was quite something, on its own and split as it was it was still a little more than a quarter of what I had just gained.

An uncountable number of wraiths, two scourge crystals used to keep their armies active, and all the mana me and mine had, and it was still a sizable piece.

Of course I hadn't come here for just the quantity of power. Given enough time I could gather an amount just like this under far safer and less conspicous circumstances.

It was what the power was that caused me to seek it out. The wild gods are manifestations of life and nature, and now so was I.

I could still feel the unnatural nature of my power, and the damage it inflicted on my body, but it was nothing to keep it in one piece now.

My flesh did not burn, my power was not halphhazardly contained in a form barely capable of holding it. In a way, Anastriels work was what saved me.

Blood magic was the corruption of everything the Loa, druids, and shamans venerated, but that very corruption now existed in every pour of my body. It worked as the bindings holding so much conflicting power together.

It had been easy to heal myself from my pitiful state, to restore my malnourished muscles and even make up for the growth said malnourishment cost me.

By the time my eyes grew back, and I was standing fully over an army of dumbfounded trolls I began to have an understanding of what my new place in the world was.

I could feel the souls of each and every one of those beings, I could feel the twisted spirits of the Scourge in the distance, making their way en masse to the elves. I had just promoted myself into a Loa.

I had just grown from a large drake to a young dragon.

It felt good, and it left me hungry for so much more. A glance at my scales called my attention to my new coloration.

Whatever magics I had used in the ritual, and those I had used to put myself back together must have bleached the color away.

Bone-white scales glistened in the night, protecting the barely visible flesh that had been left vulnerable by my battle.

A crimson glow that had emerged from my neck and arms slowly disappeared as my scales returned to their proper places.

I looked to the Amani, still frozen in fear, still unsure of what was going on. I roared, watching the worms flinch as my call echoed throughout the forests of the Ghostland.

I readied to attack, to tear them apart one by one and find my prizes in the wreckage of their empire. Then an idea struck me.

I spoke out to the city below me.

**"Amani. That's what you are, is it not?"**My laugh echoed out across the whole of the city. **"The great troll empire reduced to a single cluster of lightly connected cities and peoples, no longer even united in name, let alone purpose."**

I began with their pride.**"a great wolf, beset on all sides by jackals."**I reminded them of what they had been reduced to.

I spread my wings, keeping several warriors from charging by giving them new perspective on my size. **"You're leaders failed you when they allowed your empire to shatter into almost nothing."**

I looked to where I knew the other Loa where kept, where I knew Zul'Jin watched on in horror, knowing what I was doing.

**"Your gods failed you when they could not protect you from your enemies, or even warn you of the menace to come."**

I presented them a target to direct their blame.

**"How many of you prayed to your gods to save you from the Scourge? How many of you begged them to grant you the strength to defeat the Elves?"**

I shook my head in mock sadness.

**"I do not blame you for betraying them as they betrayed you, I do not fault you for taking matters into your own hands."**

A reptilian grin spread across my face.**"Even reduced to almost nothing you fought the Scourge when they betrayed your pact. Even with what little you had left you continued your crusade against the Elves that stole your homeland."**

I looked to the warriors who where ready to attack just moments before, who now listened with their full attention.**"Because the Amani are strong. Even when they are dying."**

I've illustrated whats happening, and now its time to present the alternative.

**"But they do not have to fade into nothing like so many of the old empires already have. We could be restored! We could be greater than even what we once where!"**

I roared out into the sky, shaking the city with it's volume **"I am Malius, Loa of the dark hunger, lord of the blackened mist, and I would see the Amani conquer once again!"**

My power stretched out to the crowd of warriors that once protected the one known as Nalorakk. I forced their blood to rush through their veins, I forced strength into their limbs and rage into their hearts.

A simple application of blood magic, something even the apprentices used with proficiency, if on a far larger scale.

**"Some of you can feel it now! The strength I have already granted you!"**

The warriors around me began to chant. "Malius!" they called. "Malius!"

**"Those of you who would become my children! Those of you who would see the Amani restored to conquer a new land!"**

My magic spread into the city, spreading into a fervor of rage and violence. **"Bring me those who have failed you! Bring me those who would allow this great empire to fall into nothingness!"**

My claws raked across the stonework of the altar I sat upon, carving through a representation of a bear, for all to see.

**"Bring them to me! So that I may show them what the punishment for weakness is!"**

Then the fighting started.


	52. Chapter 52

A little bit of words, a little bit of magic, and a city burned. Thousands of Trolls, young and old, sickly and strong, tore each other apart in my name, seeking the death of the leadership I had directed them against.

It wasn't perfect, they were not all of one mind, many were killed by mistake. Many still tried to defend the masters they knew and were comfortable with. I felt so many souls call out to my own, submitting themselves to a god who promised the old glories.

So many more were untrusting, unwilling, and unconvinced, but it didn't matter. I had allies now, and my prey was scattered around the city, unable to unify.

I jumped down from the altar, spreading my wings and flying for the first time. I caught the scent the lynx first, leading his men in crushing assault against those who decided to serve me.

I landed with a crash atop stone architecture, snarling down at the prey below, shielding my eyes at their response.

Spears and thrown axes useless bounced against my hide, only one flying true enough and with enough strength for me to notice at all.

I looked to my palm, were a spear was nicely embedded into my flesh, and then to the lynx faced troll staring back at me from below, nearly as large as the bear had been.

He fought other trolls even as he made his way toward me, instincts compelling him to face a challenger to his title. I frenzied those who fought for me even further, letting them ignore pain and giving them speed and strength to fight even the greatest warriors.

I watched some aged troll woman take a spear to the gut, before she pulled it in farther and tore her opponents throat out with her teeth.

I watched a child take up an axe twice his size, cutting the legs off a troll who had ignored him moments before.

It grew to such carnage that the only warrior who could do anything against the tide of blood-lust allayed against them was the troll with a portion of godhood inside of him.

I forced trolls to tear their own muscles apart as they fought opponents who seemed weaker and slower than before, pushing them into a frenzy of violence.

The Loa of Lynx tore through their ranks as easily as he would have if they didn't have my help, ignoring them with speed beyond their abilities, overpowering their newfound strength with nearly no effort.

He fought through nearly thirty of the trolls chanting my name into the sky before he found himself alone, the servants and guards with him falling behind, facing my ranks with far more difficulty.

An axe struck the back of his leg, forcing a roar out of the troll and hobbling him. A sword reached his side, stealing his attention away from the defense for just a moment.

It was enough

My servants rammed a spear through the trolls midsection, halting him completely. He struggled on, calling out for mercy even as they lifted him into the sky, toward me. **"Well done."** I called out.

"Blood! Blood!" they chanted back to me.

I laughed at the sound. How long had I waited for something like this? I laughed even harder , my claw wrapping around the struggling form of a god bound into a mortal.

"Blood!" The city roared around me. Jaws snapped around the creatures torso, ending its life in an instant. No ritual of power to keep me alive, no font of energies from the world around me to boost my power.

The runes along my back reappeared, bloody as if freshly carved, burning as the power of the Lynx flowed into me. Burning as I laughed, burning as my power grew and my connection to the world hidden underneath my own grew.

I ate the rest shortly after.

I felt those who worshiped me granting me some small sliver of power, I felt the world grow smaller as my perception of it grew.

Then I felt the chaos of it. Corruption below, Corruption above. It pervaded everything, coming in so many different forms, damaging a balance a part of me wanted nothing more than to preserve with all my being.

I felt a spark in my consciousness demanding I protected the world that had birthed it, that I exist only to preserve it as it grows into something more.

Another part of me relished in the thought of its destruction, of being the one to stand above the ashes as the absolute lord of it all. This was the real part of me.

I laughed as the purity of a loa was pulled apart within my form, dispersing from a representation of a single animal and the concepts associated with it, turning into nothing more than just another portion to my power.

I watched as those who defended the lynx were either torn to shreds, or falling to their knees in supplication. A light push directed them to where I knew the Eagle waited for me, cowering behind an army of subjects who had remained loyal.

**"You're gods failed you, and then they proved their weakness further by allowing themselves to be bound! Punish them!"**

Perhaps saner minds would have argued, claimed with some truth that their gods were not all powerful, that they had done all they could.

I forced their blood to stir and their hearts to rage, I chanted in their minds what their gods did wrong, I showed them visions of glorius and bloody conquest. With so many different kinds of power pouring into them, they were _so_ easy to control.

I could control their rage, and with my connection to their soul I could control what it was directed at.

Saner minds no longer existed in my city.


	53. Chapter 53

"Please! We only wanted da power to survive, to seize da right to live!"

The eagle cowered beneath me, screaming of mercy as my fanatics tore him apart.

He had given me trouble for hours, flitting about the city as I pursued him.

Using his fanatical body guards to increase his chances of survival at every corner.

My boot found its way to his throat, cutting off his mewling as I stood in the center of the burning city. I had been switching between my human and draconic form, and of course testing the boundaries of the transformation.

I managed to catch him by pretending to be one of the warriors under his command, slaughtering his men from behind when a particularly large group of rioters found us.

I stepped back and watched him try and fail to overpower a couple hundred frenzied trolls when my work was finished.

"So do I. I just happen to want it more than you or your people ever did."

To prove it I broke broke his neck with a quick application of pressure.

The directionless and disoriented portion of power that fled from his form was easy to consume, flowing into my runes almost as soon as it left the trolls body.

Things had been getting bloody, I had the majority of the populace under my control, but most of the actual warriors still stood with the old empire.

I rose a few undead to fill in the numbers, but I prefer to keep them as they were, channeling their blood for the battle. Partly out of preference, and partly out of neccessity.

A darkfallen was somewhere in these lands. Something from the very top of scourge command.

I had no intention of being caught in the middle of an army commanded by that kind of being. I took a moment to process the power, tear it into smaller and more manageable pieces.

The urge to preserve the arbitrary balance of the planet disappeared far more quickly than it had the first time around. The discoveries the expansion of sense wrought were disturbing to say the least.

It was new perspective on matters I hadnt understood. The old gods.

I imagine all but the oldest of the Loa failed to understand what they are, but each and every one of them knew about the corruption imprisoned in the darkest corners of the world.

Even reduced, their powers locked behind magics far beyond my ken, they were something else.

The knowledge that they were so strong, yet so far from the strength I sought was almost enough to drive me mad with frustration.

At the same time it excited me. In a way I understood fully what so many others did not.

That power that constantly sought to release itself, that everything knew was a threat to the safety of the world at large?

It was only the surface. The gods had been imprisoned and reduced to a fraction of what they were. I imagine most beings only focused on the horror of that concept.

For me it only smelled like opportunity. The vilest monsters of this world were only as strong as what they could extend past their cages. Of course such a thought was dangerous.

They were feared for a very good reason, but I had an idea on how to approach them, how to consume them. It would take planning and diligence, but it could be done.

I knew of five old gods, three lay imprisoned, one lay dead, and one should be somewhere in Zandalar.

Find the corpse, find the experiment, and find the one playing dead.

When I was finished with Deathwing I would either be strong enough to see it through, or I would never have had the potential to succeed at all.

For now I would relish in my new playground for just a little longer. I had three targets left.

The dragon-hawk, the unknown, and Zul'jin. They had managed to gather together in the chaos I had risen, and now stood as one within Zul'Jins fortress.

They fought together outside the fort while I pursued the eagle, but around an hour ago they changed their strategy.

With roughly half of the defending forces they barred the fortress off, leaving the rest to die outside.

Some had thrown their weapons down and joined the winning side, others fought and died, screaming for the aid of those behind sturdy walls.

In a way it was an intelligent move, I would have to take humanoid form before I could properly fight within such a place, and it would be difficult to directly assault. Trolls had a habit of trapping their own defensive works.

I would be forced to fight by their rules, leaving me vulnerable and exposed, reduced from an impossible foe to simply a difficult one.

The entire fortress shook as my form slammed into the walls. I heard screams from within as the magically reinforced stone only just absorbed the force.

It probably woulda worked too, if I wasn't a fucking dragon. As it was the fortress wasn't too much larger than I am.

On top of the magic I could cast they made this all too easy.

The blood of countless citizens flowed through the streets, surrounding the castle as I rammed my bulk into it.

It formed a ritual circle around the masonry, focused on using the souls and life-force of those within. Waste not want not.

I couldn't help but let out roaring laughter as the stonework began to crumble, and I felt the first of many die inside.

The fortress was a temple of stone dedicated to the gods and magically crafted to withstand prolonged assault.

It took five more blows to topple it into nothing more than a pile of rubble.

I frowned when I felt the sudden surge of power coming up to greet me. The collective power of a few thousand trolls an expected but not quite appreciated result.

The power of any of the loa i knew to be within had not come with it.

A lance of burning pain in my side alerted me to their response. I whipped around to see a one armed troll standing across from me, holding a strange blade.

"I neva heard of a Loa quite like you, but you gonna die here."

My ears twitched at the sound of the others rising through the rubble with him.

Magic hummed around me as a barrier rose over the remains of the fortress, trapping me inside without the the aid of my servants.

**"Lovely."**


	54. Chapter 54

I grunted as Zul'Jins blade carved another line in my hide, the enhanced troll jumping away before I could retaliate. Lightning scoured the wound further as a laughing Witchdoctor channeled magics at me.

I ignored the wave of fire washing over me as the dragonhawk tried to attack me with heat. Fool.

We had been going at this for some time now. The trolls figured out I was stronger and more magically able on an individual basis, so they had been working together to fight me.

That wouldn't have bothered me too much if I wasn't already straining my power on their leader.

The only one able to keep up with me physically was Zul'Jin, but his experience and power made it a difficult fight one on one, much less my current situation.

The Dragonhawks flames did no damage but obscured my vision, the Hexlords magics tore at any vulnerable flesh Zul"Jin exposed.

Whats worse is the wounds the illustrious troll warlords blade caused healed considerably slower than they should.

I felt the last of a few gashes on my back finally close up, wounds I suffered nearly thirty minutes ago when he managed to sneak behind me and take a place along my spine.

They had been harrying me constantly in an effort to prevent me from casting any particularly complicated magics. It was getting annoying. I was still on a limited time frame.

However, it was a valuable learning experience. It taught me several foes on a higher level of strength, with the right planning, were a threat.

I snapped at the dragonhawk, taking his hand before he could dodge away, watching it begin to reform shortly after he landed.

That was another problem. They were fast, and what wounds I dolled out healed quicker than my own did.

I had burned the Hexlord to a crisp in the opening moments of the fight, and when my attention was stolen away by his allies he returned with nothing more than ruined clothing, chanting more dark curses so advanced I could barely recognize what they did.

I felt myself beginning to breath with more and more difficulty as time went on, the storms of mana I sent out towards my foes avoided, redirected, or simply ignored.

They had turned this into a battle of attrition. Something I hadn't expected to be losing with my new state of being.

I needed time to direct this in my favor, time to cast properly. I hacked up my tongue, coughing out my innards as the Hexlord directed some kind of chant at me.

I heard a whistle in the air above me, before I quickly turned into my human form, diving away as he landed with a thunderous crack onto the stone of my previous posistion.

I was done with this. I elbowed behind me, taking the breath from the weakest link, and locking my arm around the waist of the Dragonhawk.

I turned on a dime, using him as a shield against a bolt of lightning that had just left the Hexlords finger tips. The avatar of a god gasped as his flesh burned away, coughing at the blow.

I grabbed at the weakened flesh, throwing us both back in time to dodge another blow from Zul'Jin.

He screamed out as my fingers dug into his burned rib cage, growing louder as I pulled a bloody and broken rib from his wound.

His eyes widened as I brought the bone up to his face. "Help m-"

He gurgled as I used it to stab into his throat. I felt magic gather in the air around me, forming into something I did not recognize.

I quickly turned one of my fingers into a draconic claw, carving a symbol on his back before I dove backward in time to avoid a pillar of flame that formed around us both.

Zul'Jin intercepted me, driving his blade into my stomach, reaching at my spine for the third time today, finally severing it and halting my movement.

"Finally, time ta put ya down. Strange god" He chuckled, making to remove his weapon.

My hands grasped around his arm, holding it in place as several more cuts tore across me body, thanks to Malacrass The Hexlords magics.

I smiled as the troll yelled out behind us, my bloody grin growing as the witch doctor spoke. "Keep dat fool where he is, we could be usin dat powa for ourselves."

A glance to the side revealed the dragonhawk trying to stand, his chest forming back together again. A shaky hand grasped around the bone lodged in his throat.

The trolls face closed in on my own, snarling through the torn remains of a cloth mask. "Ya hear dat? We gonna make you put all dis back together, Slave-god."

"We gonna b-" My forhead smashed into his nose with an audible crack, cutting him off and probably breaking his nose.

When he looked back at me I saw the purple glow of my own eyes reflect back to me, turning fel green as I tapped into the rune I drew on the dragon-hawk.

I heard the Loa of Dragonhawks gasp out, before falling back to the ground as the power began to drain for him. I smashed my skull into the trolls a second time, this time breaking one of his tusks against my forehead.

Corrupted vines tore from the earth behind us, impaling Zul'Jin through the midsection. The plant matter quickly growing around and inside him, restricting his movement.

Zul'Jins blood formed scripture around his face, and I watched as ritual markings formed on every inch of skin I saw. He pulled back, the rubble below us sent flying by the force of his struggle

My vines tightened further, growing around him even as they snapped and gave way. They were fed by his own power.

My clawed hand reached out to his shoulder, steadily carving out another rune even as he fought, twisting the blade impaling me.

I felt one of my eyes melt as the strongest Witchdoctor in the Amani Empire uselessly, tore at me with spells. The troll roared at me in frustration, pouring more magic into the spell as I did my work.

When I was finished I tore myself to the side, waiting for my flesh to knit back together before standing up as whatever the latest curse did took its toll on my body, before it healed, empowered by the rapidly dying one armed troll warlord.

When I turned around Malacrass was already on his knees, his eyes wide with fear.

He shook, kneeling over the rubble of his own temple. "S-spare me great one, Lord of da blackened mist and Loa of da Dark hunger."

A smile grew on the half of my face that had managed to repair itself, the rest still little more than blood and bone. "Why?"

His palms touched the earth as he bowed completely."So that I may serve as a priest to your magnificence."

I paused. It was tempting. He was the strongest Witchdoctor I had come across, it wasn't his fault the magics he used to fight weren't designed for something like me.

I turned back into my true form, feeling my armored scales envelop me. My tongue rubbed along my still healing skull. I waited a moment.

"No." My claws grasped around him, lifting him up to my eyes. He paled at the word.

"Please! I can serve you well!" I tilted my head.

"I'm sure you would, until you found a way to consume me, just like you did the god you had been raised to serve."

My jaws closed around the screaming High priest in an instant.


	55. Chapter 55

I stood among the rubble of the temple, watching the shield around me fall and the trolls begin to pour inside.

The chanted my name, not coming to close, but throwing themselves into the ground in worship.

I smiled as my face finally repaired itself, before twitching at the sudden influx of strength.

The Hexlords loa was strange. Its power did not pull towards balance, and it was substantial.

I had been eating portions of the gods up untill this point, so i had expected the boost to come up to greet me to be great.

This was different. The power felt malign, dark, possibly even evil. I didn't tear it apart for raw strength like I had the others. I was curious.

I looked over the bound forms of what was left of my prey. The dragon hawk was all but gone, his power reduced to nothing more than raw mana.

Something of a waste. Loa were more than energy, their power had different bounds than mana did, it was a connection to the natural world far beyond what most could concieve.

When a druid used their mana they used it to call upon the spirits of nature, and use their power to preserve life.

It allowed them to heal others, control the growth of plantlife. and change themselves into animal forms.

When druids used that power they worked in tandem with nature in the same way shamans did with the elements themselves. It was why druids using their power for evil was almost unheard of.

If a druid who used nature for selfish means, like personal power or blood lust, nature took note and often refused outright.

I had just skipped the middle man in that process. It was terribly unlikely any of the raw spirits of nature that made up the land would accept me using them, but now I was one of them.

I had already been breaking the rules using sacrifice and blood magic to force them to do as I wished, but now that I had the combined power of several spirits of nature so strong they had been worshiped as gods, I no longer had too.

Blood magic certainly still had a great deal of uses, more than before in fact, but now I could probably call upon nature better than most druids could.

In fact, in a place like this, where the spirits had all been killed off or enslaved, I could use it to a greater degree than any druid.

It was a shame so much authority over the land itself had been lost, but since it granted me victory I was willing to accept the sacrifce.

Besides, I still had Zul'Jin, and he had more than enough to go around. If he had any idea how to use his power for more than enhanced pyhsical powers he may have been able to overpower me on his own.

He had been too focused on what his gods where supposed to represent, over what they could actually do. I looked at the troll, kneeling as the roots tightened around him further. His superstition had been the death of him.

My grin grew sharp as I made my way towards him, flashes of so many people eating each other going through my mind as I did.

Beautiful.

He didnt say a word as I approached, silently staring at me. He didnt flinch as I drew back, a growl drawing from my throat.

"Kill dem all." It was the last words of the greatest Amani warlord to ever live.

My inscriptions blazed once I consumed him, I let them glow for all to see as the trolls around me cheered.

**"Our empire has been cleansed of weakness, and now it is time to return to our former glory!"**

"Malius!, Malius!" They roared back to me.

**"This land is dying, torn apart by the greed of those who sought to steal it from us!"**

I inclined my head, standing at my full height. I towered over the trolls who now served me. Bloodied and craving for more they waited with baited breath for my next command.

I poured rage and hunger into their hearts. **"Hakkar has insulted me for the last time. Sail for Stranglethorn."**

Their numbers had been reduced to nearly nothing, but they were still a force to be reckoned with, a few thousand souls. I would see them used well.

**"The Gurubashi will convert, or they will die. Go now, set sail with my blessings, and conquer this world anew!"**

The trolls took up the weapons of those warriors who had been slain, along with whatever bladed implements they could find, the chanting faded as they went about my task.

Their silence hid the fanaticism I could feel in their souls.

In a couple of days whatever trolls that inhabited the scattered villages and outposts would hear the news, either converting or fleeing to other empires.

They would repair or remake the neglected ships of their navy, lightly used ever since the Scourge began to take over the countryside.

If they couldnt find enough of their own ships to use for the task they would steal them, prying them from the hands of the wretched pirates if they had too.

Eventually my slaves made their way through the crowd, cheering with them as if they too believed in my power. The lack of connection to theirs souls spoke otherwise.

I paused as i looked at them. I suppose it was time to wrap things up around here.

**"Return to the ship, and set sail for Westfall. Return to the study of my rituals and the creation of my golems."  
**  
I spread my wings, taking to the skies with a single leap. I had business to finish.

It was so rare to see diplomacy and revenge come together, and it would be glorious.


	56. Chapter 56

Deathholme was the center of Scourge interests in the conquest of Quel'Thalas, It was a fortress of death, endlessly churning out an army of the damned bent on the singular purpose of taking the High Elven lands for themselves.

For months the Scourge had left the forces within Deathholme with the considerable support of the plaguelands, expecting a short campaign and a quick aquisistion of territory.

An easy conquest, a reward for the elf who made it all possible. The lich king had granted the soon to be conquered territory to one lord Dar'Khan Drathir, for him to rule as a king with only one master.

It had all started so beautifully.

Then, almost as if a phoenix rising from the ashes, the elves rose up under a new name, using demonic magic in place of their corrupted Sunwell to rebuild their shattered homeland.

It was true, the slaughter the Lich kings invasion inflicted upon Silvermoon had been an unprecedented in its loss of life to such a long lived people.

But what remained where almost all of the best and brightest minds a race known far and wide for its magical prowess, within a month they were pouring out magical constructs to fight off the scourge, within two the rangerss supported them.

Within a year they had empowered the shattered wards to something close to their old power, and retook the land for themselves, pushing the undead back into the Ghostlands.

Soon after they somehow gained the effort and support of the orcish horde following their abandonment by the humans, even if relations were only recently established.

One of the greatest embarassments was the Trolls. He had been merciful, allowing the savages to live in return for an alliance against the living Elves, yet they spat on his kindness, attacking his fortresses and causing weeks of damage to his forces.

This, and the successful sabotage of some wretched infiltrator saw to it a figure of nearly untouchable political favor was brought low to the eyes of all servants of the Scourge, so much so was his disgrace that an old rival, one who never would have chanced challenging him in the past, now paraded inside his fortress as if he had the right to control it.

Dar'Khan Drathir was not pleased. The San'Layn were never pleasant to deal with, and Lonnas Dawnstride was the worst of them.

He had to gall to think them rivals, the little wretch had followed him about, declaring his eternal hatred after a woman had chosen a real magister over some pretentious brat.

The brat had changed into a dangerous opponent, but he could still see flashes of the child he once was, still see behind the Darkfallen Elves eyes the boy crying to him about how he had stolen his "truest love."

When Lonnas arrived from Northrend, escorted by several new necromancers and several thousand reinforcing undead he knew things would be taking a turn for the worse around here.

That annoying self satisfied little shit smile of his told him everything he needed to know. Lonnas had pushed for command of his post, and it seems his favor had fallen enough for the Lich King to allow it.

Oh how much better things would have been if that boy prince had just died when he was supposed to, he could be commanding the whole of the Scourge.

He shivered at the thought. Glorious

Still, Lonnas' presence was not totally without its benefits.

The Magisters had been working in Tandem, doubling down on the wards and producing enough golems to march directly against his forces.

They had even begun to take to the field after one of them disappeared, and the blame fell upon his forces.

As much as he would have liked for he or one of his dark casters to take credit for Antheol's death, no one came forward to claim the credit.

The Magisters that had taken to leading the golems were monstrous on the battlefield, tearing legions of his minions apart with spellfire.

Thrice he had been forced to confront them personally, but the power his studies into undeath and his brief consumption of a portion of the Sunwells power was not enough.

The first battle had been easy enough, and he handled the magister who commanded golems to march on the deadscar easily, but then they started traveling in threes.

Three experienced magisters working in tandem was a difficult foe to face even for him, and even when he did gain the upper hand they managed to cover each others escape.

With Lonnas around he had another force to allay against the magisters, and more importantly the most dangerous creatures of scourge design aiding in the conquest.

It would almost be ideal if his rightful place as Silvermoons ruler hadn't been stolen away.

So he devised a plan. The magisters and the golems they commanded represented the majority of the military power his people could pull together.

If they could manage to destroy them in a single consolidated push, the horde would lose faith in the ally who failed to prove themselves, draw back their forces, and give him free reign over Quel'Thalas.

Once the Sin'Dorei fell he could turn his attentions to his "Rival".

If all went well he would tragically fall in battle, just barely overpowered by the magisters.

Of course he tried to save his dear comrade, but alas Lonnas simply wasn't all he was cut out to be.

And who would take command in his absence? Humble Dar'Khan, ever trustworthy servant to the Lich King.

At his advice Lonnas gathered their forces for days, pulling back the steady stream of recently created undead to allow them to gather as many bodies as possible.

It was on the fifth day that he believed they had readied the forces they needed, and he waited within Deathholme as the armies of the Scourge marched once again.

It was a vision of the first invasion, a tide of death coming for his homeland, it even smelled of the same opportunity.

He watched from atop the walls as the army marched out, standing side by side with Lonnas as they readied to observe the battle from afar.

They had carefully readied teleportation circles in several critical junctions in the wards, and when the battle was fully underway they would appear on each side of the ward wall with hundreds more of the evil dead.

The battle plan was near flawless, the initial assault would be too great for the magisters to match with anything but their full force, and when two beings of magical might equal to the Scourges best arrived they would be too focused on the battle to maintain the wards.

Once they fell it would be easy to surround and pick off what was left of his people.

The only true weakness was the brief moment he and Lonnas would be split off from the main horde, they would be vulnerable to direct assault.

He had scoffed at the idea when Lonnas had brought up the possibility. Who would challenge them? The last of the Elven resistance in the Ghostlands had been cleared out months ago.

The Trolls had been hiding in their little city ever since he directed some of his forces to purge them from the territory.

Even if one of those forces did attack they would be sacrificing their best for the barest possibility of victory at the assumption of an attack.

Which was why it truly was a surprise when the attack did come. It began as a whistle in the distance.

His ears twitched at the sound of something tearing through the night sky with ease. When he looked up his eyes widened, and he barely managed to bring up a shield in time to block a blast of felfire at a magnitude he had never seen.

Lonnas failed to do the same.

An albino dragon landed with a thunderous boom on the parapets, its size determining it to be a young adult. Sorcerous energy crackled around the creature as it looked down upon him.

His brow rose as it called out **"Dar'Khan! What a pleasant surprise! I was just in the neighborhood, and I couldn't help but think of you."**

His brow rose. He was certain he would remember encountering such a creature. It would be a risk to fight it alo- he stopped.

The howl of rage that sounded to his side brought a smirk to his face as Lonnas rose up, his burns quickly mending.

At least he had someone to distract the creature if it proved too much a challenge.

He bowed. "A pleasant surprise indeed, mighty creature. What brings you to my fortress?"


	57. Chapter 57

Dar'Khan stood on the castle walls of Deathholme, the healing form of the San'Layn who had taken over just a couple of feet away from him.

Unbeknownst to the both of my oppenents, blackened vines crept along the wall behind them, crawling up the stone from the earth below.

Green fire licked at the surface of the stone around us, singing and burning away at the structure with no apparent source of fuel.

I was clinging to the top of a tower linked to the wall, my tail curling around the stone. It was interesting to see the world so small.

I could feel the souls of my chosen opponents, and the overwhelming magic within them. They both represented the best works of necromatic magic the Scourge had available to them.

Dar'Khan was a partial lich, unique in his empowerment from the overwhelming arcane might of the Sunwell, and the Darkfallen was a vampric creature with an incredible power over blood.

Many individuals thought of them as the pinnacle of what an ambitious mage was capable of. Darkened rituals turning them into near immortal beings of power, sitting at the same place of power many demon lords and dragons sat.

They were of particular interest to me. The books I had stolen from this very fortress covered the creation of liches, and I had studied intensely on how that particular work of magic was put together.

However this was different. Dar'Khan was a creature of his own making, and the darkfallen with him was something of a scourge military secret, unique to them and them alone.

And here they were alone, and mostly unguarded. The small army of elite scourge forces meandering below had been watching me closely since my arrival.

A smattering of abominations, at least a dozen wraiths of considerable strength, and at least thirty skeletal mages.

Not to mention a few hundred skeletons in full plate armor, wielding wicked looking blades.

An overwhelming threat to most to be certain, but a manageable foe for me.

"A pleasant surprise indeed, mighty creature. What brings you to my fortress?"

I smiled as best as my reptilian head would allow. **"Perhaps I can jog your memory."**

Fel flame began burning along my claws as I spoke, and I made to go on the attack, before I froze.

"Enough of this." The San'Layn beckoned at me, and my blood churned against my will, my flesh fighting against itself, a growl sounded out as I struggled against his will.

To his credit it took a moment. I straightened, my eyes locking onto his own as the wraiths raced into the air after me, clawing at my hide with spectral limbs, ignoring the armored plating of my scales.

The wraiths slowed and faded as the green runes along my arms drew them into me, wailing out uselessly as the energies keeping them alive was torn away.

I looked back to Dar'Khan as he unleashed a flurry of deathbolts, the shadowed magic tainting portions of my hide and rotting away the flesh beneath.

He took a step back when I ignored them, feeling the wounds expose themselves to open air, pouring blood onto the tower.

**"What was it you said to me, Necromancer? Oh, yes, thats it."**

I crushed the steadily rising blood flow, fighting the vampires influence with my own.

The flames flickering off my claws steadily rose up my arms, before they ignited fully across my form in time to intercept the hail of frost bolts the skeletal mages below began to unleash.

My wings spread in an instant, flinging green flame all around me. Several of undead underneath me collapsed as fire rained down from above, burning through their skeletal remains easily

The darkfallen shielded his eyes from the conflagration, dropping his attempt at controlling me.

**"I'll grant you the boon of dying to me personally."**

Dar'Khans eyes widened with recognition, and for a moment the infamous necromancer was stunned silent.

"You? You were that wretched fiend that stole my servants and defiled my fortress?" He shook his head.

"Impossible. A Novice practitioner managed to escape me that day, what you are is an abomination of magic!"

I lept from my place atop the tower, my maw now dripping with my own blood, towards them both.

Dar'Khan disappeared the moment I moved, returning with a blink to the ground below us, his fingers curling as he chanted at the undead around us.

The Darkfallen took my attack head on.

My claws dug into a red barrier that appeared just before I could close the distance between us. The Darkfallen looked up at me, his arms shaking as he struggled to hold me back.

I laughed as I pushed harder against it, just barely hearing the Vampyr groan at the effort through the thrum of his magic.

The elves hand grasped a ritual knife at his side, before he plunged the blade into his stomach as the shield began to crack.

Blood spilled all around him, soaking the stone he stood upon with the liquid.

He chanted a single word in a language I did not recognize as the shield shattered.

The blood around him blackened, before jumping out at me in an instant.

I grunted as ten foot spears of blood impaled themselves through my chest, bursting out from my back moments later as they continued to grow past me, reaching into the sky.

With a heave from the undead elf the spears curled in on themselves, before I was tossed to the earth below.

The dead were quick to capitalize on my new posistion, tossing themselves at me in spite of the flame covering my form.

My jaws closed around an abomination attempting to drive its cleaver through my eye, and I stood, spilling gouts of blood into the earth as I swiped at the gathering horde of skeletons around me.

With a flick of my neck i tossed the abomination at Dar'Khan, laughing as I bounded after my prey through the carnage, ignoring the vampire as he used my own blood as blades against me, ignoring the undead tearing into my exposed flesh.

By the time I reached him I was certain my body could pass as an undead, Dar'Khan disappeared just before I could reach him, blinking into existence a few meters away.

I turned on a dime, breathing red tinged flame at him, and the fortress around us.

A shield of fel energy arose around me as I blocked another flurry of death bolts supported by frost bolts.

I took a moment to admire the flames growing around me as I recovered, my flesh beginning to slowly knit itself back together once I took the time to concentrate on it.

The battlefield was almost ready.

Soon, but not quite yet.


	58. Chapter 58

I flinched as arcane energy surged throughout my body, heaving blood as Dar'Khan activated a runic array underneath me as I drew too near to a ziggurat.

A second explosion lauched me into the air.

I flew into a couple of buildings, quickly finding myself buried beneath the rubble. It seems since my last time here measure had been taken against interference with the power sources to the Scourge.

I would have too, considering their importance to extended conflict.

Every time I got too close to the ziggurats they redoubled their efforts in attacking me. They were learning.

I burst from the wreckage, throwing up another shield as I made my way around the fortress, burning all in my wake.

I crushed a skeletal mage into a ruined buildings wall as I passed it by.

I had been keeping up the charade for quite some time. Throwing fire at the undead that approached me, chasing down Dar'Khan throughout the streets.

I had taken curses, spellfire, bladed weaponry of blood and more. Most spells used in combat were simplistic, easily used.

The difference was in the definition of simplistic, and easily used. A novice could cast a plague bolt, a shadow bolt, or any equivalent their chosen school held.

A master could cast an overpowered deathbolt, and have three different cursed under their breath hit you at the same moment.

A master could attack and defend at once, repeatedly use energy intense spells to avoid damage. As a talented but inexperienced caster my talents in combat did not often rely on direct magical attacks.

In combat I often rely on subterfuge, surprise, and preparation. Even now, as a dragon covered in hellish flame, tearing apart all I could see, I was not putting my full efforts into the spells I was casting.

I could overpower my abilities, break past shields and barriers with raw power, but I was fighting two top tier undead inside their own territory.

Dar'Khan had already shown a mastery over the blink spell I hadn't seen before.

The blood prince who fought with him was constantly testing the bounds of my control over my own body, attempting to steal away my power as he used my own blood as a tool to attack.

More strength in that manner would be useless unless I had enough power to vaporize this whole fortress in an instant. Even then that would never be a guarantee.

I had to do things differently than that.

There was one concept I held in high regard ever since my arrival. Preparation.

Being unprepared for what you faced was often the death of casters. Rogues sneaking around you, warriors with enchanted weaponry attacking suddenly, dragons appearing inside your fortress.

A prepared magic user could raise armies of the dead, steal the power of gods, tap into the lay lines themselves, open portals to demon worlds, and so much more.

An unprepared magic caster was just a man in a fancy robe holding a stick.

That was precisely why I love ritual casting as much as I do. With the right amount of time and preparation a novice could do the same rituals a master could.

I had been using rituals that casters far above my abilities were only barely capable of with just the right amount of guile.

I had gotten so good at it I had even begun tweaking them on my own, having Antheol and the others look them over when my work was complete.

I unleashed another blast of felfire, covering a charnel house in flame. A look around the fortress revealed nothing more than a pit of flames.

Most of the undead that been swarming me over the past hour had been burned away.

I crouched low, hiding between some buildings as more spells passed over my head. The flames were doing a marvelous job of reducing visibility.

The blackened smoke filling the air around the place would undoubtedly be deadly to most living beings, to my opponents it was simply difficult to see,

It obscured the air, the sky, and even the ground.

The use of rituals in combat was completely unheard of.

There had been mages in the past who prepared magical traps, or carved sigils into their places of power to increase their own abilities to be certain, but no one had ever set up ritual casting in the middle of a battle.

For good reason too, it often took hours of preparation and study to ready some ritual circles, and in combat one often had other things to worry about over making sure no mistakes were made in any arrays you put together.

Unless someone had a perfect memory and could somehow arrange the ritual circle instantly or at least quickly.

Someone with knowledge of rituals of all kinds, most of which were original work made from the combined efforts of separate schools of magic, some of which were even conflicting.

Someone like me.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the nature of the land around me. I concentrated on the two separate fonts of magical energy within Deathholme

I felt the ground rumble and shift as blackened roots tore through the ground, closing around the Ziggurats.

I felt the blood that had pooled around the structures climb up the roots, sealing them off from the world around them.

Dozens of other arrays, all in strategic positions around the area begin to form as well, covering entire portions of Deathholme

The roots growing along the wall formed spears over the parapets, facing inward as my array powered itself.

I laughed as I felt myself cut off from my own magic, as the fel flame lost its focus and power, dying down into simple fires scattered across the fortress.

Simplicity in all its perfection.


	59. Chapter 59

This land was disgusting through and through. The Night-Elves of An'owyn had come with the purpose of observing their ancient foes.

They had come from the shores of Kalimdor to investigate the true nature of the Scourge and its affects on the land, and they had stayed to survey the threat the newly named Blood-Elves represented.

In their desperation they clung to even viler magics than they had before, using demonic magic to combat the undead and power their structures and wards.

It was an atrocity.

The highborne had no concept of care for the nature around them, they enslaved the spirits of nature just for the simple purpose of keeping their land within some preconceived notion of beauty.

Even the trolls were better, at least they respected the land in their own savage way.

The Sin'Dorei were stealing the true quality from the land with their selfishness. It was a false and superficial beauty, marred by the agony of the land.

The only thing worse was what the Scourge had done. The highborn controlled the land, forcing it to an appealing form.

The undead stole its life away, twisting the spirits themselves into monstrosities fully aware of what they had become, yet unable to change it.

They had reported their findings with haste once enough information had been gathered on the foes that had arranged themselves against the Alliance.

Nyssa Stormheart had personally flown from their place in the Ghostlands, directly to Ashenvale to deliver the information.

It was on the very night of her return that things changed. The guards were murdered, the commander of their outpost slain, and the only druid at their disposal captured for purposes unknown.

The Trolls had taken her, undoubtedly to serve as another one of their slaves.

The An'owyn garrison did not take the transgression kindly. They slaughtered hundreds of trolls, attacking from the shadows that permanently fell over the land.

They spilled the blood of a hundred trolls for ever life stolen that night, torturing those who survived their attacks for weeks for the barest hint of where their fallen sister had gone.

It was for naught. No troll had even the slightest idea of a Night-Elf prisoner, and many more had only become aware of their presence when the attacks came.

For months they grimly went about their task, even as the Sin'Dorei resistance and their forsaken allies were pushed back into Eversong.

They watched as the highborne rebuilt their strength, pushing the undead from Eversong in their entirety, as they fought against their own corrupted brethren.

Eventually the time came that a victor would be decided. The highborn Elves restored as much strength as they could in such a short period of time, and the undead recieved reinforcements from the frozen north.

Anvilward sent reports of a growing relationship with the Horde as the fighting grew more intense.

Then, just two weeks ago, things began to truly change for the worse.

The undead withdrew, gathering for what was surely the largest push since the fall of Lordaeron, days later scouts reported carnage as civil war broke out overnight among the Trolls, and the roar of a dragon of unknown origin or affiliation was heard.

The fall of Silvermoon would mean the undead had full control of the entire upper portion of the Eastern Kingdoms, and a fresh supply of soldiers and necromancers.

The fall of Deathholme would mean the considerable power of the Horde would grow further, granting them a larger foothold on a continent that was originally fully Alliance territory.

Scouts witnessed at least ten thousand undead of various forms, accompanied by at least three dozen necromancers.

They marched along the dead scar, coming to a halt at the edge of the wards under heavy spellfire from the magisters who waited on the other side.

Some necromancers attacked the wards themselves, and others focused on keeping the undead alive as they marched past the threshold.

Yet, every nightelf in the Ghostlands found their attentions drawn elsewhere. Just as the battle truly went underway, something changed.

From the heart of the anguish the Scourge unleashed on the land, the spirits called out in terror.

Everything with a connection to nature felt as a battle went underway within Deathholme.

To the Kaldorei it was the biological and mystical equivalent of an error message.

Death magics collided with an obscene mixture of twisted life magic and destructive fel mixed alongside a smattering of other twisted forms of magic.

They felt what should be a spirit of nature assume the power of demons, facing the necromancy within with magics just as dark.

It was a beacon of life and nature, surrounded and intertwined with so many conflicting powers it should be an impossibility.

Even as the scouts watched magisters collide with experienced necromancers, even as undead creatures met the stone of Arcane Guardians, their true focus was on the battle they could not see.

It was anathema, alien to them all. What possible force could corrupt a spirit of nature so? What evil brought a spirit reflecting the world itself to such lows?

Perhaps most concerning was the strength of it. Few beings, living or dead, had so much raw strength within them.

Every spirit of nature that had that sort of strength was thought to be well known, yet even so corrupted they would be able to recognize it.

Then, after little more than an hour, it disappeared, fading away as if it was never there at all.

The victor of the battle for Silvermoon was decided in the next instant, the countless forms of the undead either collapsing or weakening considerably, leaving the necromancers alone and unguarded amidst an army of enemies.

Something had changed within the Ghostlands, but was it truly for the better?


	60. Chapter 60

I watched the struggling form of the San'Layn as he tried to pull himself from the vines and roots impaling him into the castle wall. He had been on the parapets when they did their work.

His eyes glowed blood red as he tried to draw on his power.

"We both know that's never going to work."

In spite of its name, an Anti magic field does not remove magic, it halts its movement and manipulation, cutting off actively manipulated energy from the caster.

You still have mana, it just cant be manipulated outwardly. It wasn't normally the kind of spell I would use.

I had spent a lot of time and effort into becoming the kind of magic user I was, and using something that cut me off from it was uncomfortable to say the least.

However my situation has changed rather recently. A dragon, even a young one was as much a monstrosity physically as it was magically.

A lich and his vampire friend? Not so much.

He snarled at me, before shaking his head. "You've beaten me. Just end it."

Sure they were both almost certainly stronger and more physically capable than most mortals, but what was a lifeless monster with the strength of three men to me?

This was over.

My blood, and the vines covered the streets in symbols I had memorized. The walls had been overtaken by roots and sharpened vines pointing inward, quickly turning a fortress into a prison.

"Do you want to live?" His brows rose as he took in the question. Scourge didn't normally receive or expect mercy.

"Of course." I growled lightly at him.

"You seem the type of individual to have more malleable loyalties than most, I could free you."

"if you became my servant."

He pretended to consider for a moment, before speaking. "Of course my lord, just release me from these bindings and I'll be happy to-"

I interrupted him."Do you think me a fool? No, I need a guarantee."

"Pledge your soul to me, and I'll grant you a place as a leader among a new order."

He hesitated, this time taking my offer seriously. "Youre strong, dragon, but the Lich king is a god in his own right, he's more than capable of overpowering you. Why should I even consider joining you?"

I tilted my head for a moment. "Because I can grant you power, and a chance at a longer life. You can die here, a servant to the blood queen."

I waited for that to sink in. "Or?"

"Or you can join me, and follow my commands and my commands alone, a king in your own right if you handle yourself correctly."

A greedy smirk fell over his face. "Deal."

I felt a soul of purest black link to my own.

* * *

My claws ground a skeleton into the dirt as I casually made my way around the place.

Cut off from their power source and the energy of their creators and they were nothing more than bones.

My head twitched to the left, and my eyes locked upon the temple were I knew Dar'Khan resided. He had himself once the effects of my spell casting had been made clear.

I could hear his movement from within. He had no heartbeat or breath, but the sound of paper scattering and muted curses were more than enough information to work with.

My form shifted as I approached, taking longer than I would have like with the considerable more constricted nature of my magic.

The process was slow, and I had a feeling it would count as a painful experience to most.

I sighed as my bones aligned properly into their place, and my scales withdrew into my body, before striding inside.

I followed the sound through darkened hallways one could compare to a crypt, before descending downward into the temple.

The halls were mostly barren, and the floors were of cold stone.

It was annoying no one in the scourge had a sense of class. I know comfort doesn't really matter considering their lifeless nature, but appearances are important too.

I'd have thought Dar'Khan would share that belief with me.

I entered a dimly lit room filled with vials and mixtures, notes were scattered about, and Dar'Khan faced away from me, looking through papers and notes.

He didn't turn to face me, but the slight stiffening of his back told me he knew I was here.

"I was on the verge of proving myself, of ruling over our people."

I smiled, maybe he was, or maybe I had accelerated the inevitable. The Elf glanced back at me. "I never would have thought some novice I failed to put down would spell my end."

"Perhaps, but you had to have known theres always a risk." It was something I had accepted before I had become Malius. It rang just as true now.

Nasty people meet nasty ends.

He gestured to the notes. "You consumed one of the Loa, taking its power for yourself."

I nodded.

He shook his head. "millennia of studying magic and I can only see a piece of the puzzle."

I took a step towards my prey as he spoke once more. "How did you ever manage to do this?"

My grin stretched just a little too wide. "Audacity."

I caught a blade coming for my throat in an instant as the lord of Deatholme whipped around, crushing his wrist and taking the knife he held.

I glanced at the weapon. A wickedly curved dagger, almost a sword.

"Who are you? I never asked when we first met."

I swung the blade across his throat, taking his head from his body. "For a long time it was difficult to tell."

I grasped at the undead elf's greyed hair, lifting him up to meet my gaze. "Malius."

"So thats the name of my killer."

I hummed at the words, before one of my fingers slowly formed into a claw.

"Not quite." I carved a symbol into the head, before I began working more inscriptions into and past the flesh, carving into the skull.

My eyes fell upon the skeleton that had probably once guarded Dar'Khan. It'll have to do.

* * *

The magisters of Silvermoon watched as the last of the necromancers died screaming, elated but confused.

They stood on the corrupted soil of the dead scar, waiting just beyond the edge of the wards.

The undead fell far before the battle should have been decided, and far too many necromancers died for it to be any kind of trap or deception.

For months they had prepared for battle against the scourge, gathering an army of stone and arcane to battle against the horde they all knew would one day come in full.

Many Fought Dar'Khan himself, sacrificing themselves so others would have a chance to overcome their foe.

Yet when the battle came the enemy collapsed almost as soon as they had arrived, the only hint at what had happend being an explosion in the distance.

It had ripped through the air not long after the battle ended.

To have it all end so easily and so suddenly marked for investigation. But who would chance crossing the boundaries into such a territory?

A trap seemed unlikely, but to many it looked to be the only possible answer.

They jumped as a voice rang out across the dead scar."Hello!"

Several rose their staffs, calling on magic as a figure in a dark cloak approached them, his hood down to reveal a handsome human face.

In one hand he held a familiar Elven head. "My name is Marcus, I came for a diplomatic mission, but I'm afraid my ship was attacked by pirates before I managed to arrive."

"I managed to make it to shore easily enough, but it was quite an adventure getting this far."

The human tossed the head of Dar'Khan Drathir at their feet. "Do you think you could escort me to Silvermoon?"

He smiled "I've got a story to tell."


	61. Chapter 61

Lor'Themar Theron was not an easily surprised elf. It was easy enough to accept that Deathholme had finally fallen, that the scourge that had taken up in the Ghostlands now existed as feral and scattered creatures.

Life had been full of surprises over the past months. Him leading his people chief among them. To be honest, to finally be surprised with something actually pleasant was refreshing in a way.

It was the cause of so much surprise that caught him off guard.

His own personal adviser, and foremost mage in the kingdom, Grand Magister Rommath reported that a human had single handedly ended the war for Quel'Thalas.

The magisters reported he marched directly down the dead scar shortly after the majority of the undead collapsed, and presented the head of the traitor Dar'Khan, claiming he had "quite a story."

It truly seemed so.

It was a miracle, too good to be true. The kind of feat many would liken to legend.

Admittedly he was suspiscious.

He had the human claiming to be the necromancer king of Westfall watched, but well fed and well tended to by courtesans and attendants until his claims were verified.

He would be damned if his people were known as poor hosts to heroes, even if one needed to be looked into.

Many of his advisors claimed it was impossible for a single human necromancer to be capable of this but the every report and investigation into the matter confirmed the scourge leadership in the area to be completely wiped out.

Deathholme was an empty and charred ruin, destroyed by the overload of a ziggurat if his mages were correct.

The head they were presented was easily recognizable and had been well tested for any potential falsehood.

Still, he had ordered his men to keep the story to themselves until they were sure. If it was true the humans actions could change the veiws of the entire Sin'Dorei people.

Many had been ready to ally with the orcs when it was clear the humans would provide no aid, but the decision had been close.

Without prince Kael'Thas, the individual who first declared to move against the alliance, around to keep views as they were many would use this "Marcus of Moonbrook" as an example of why they should look to the alliance.

It could change everything.

When it was clear there was nothing else to do but speak to the man himself Lor'Themar called him to a personal audience.

He had Rommath inscribe an array onto the ground they would speak, one that would inform its creator whether or not those within it spoke the truth.

It was a relatively well known spell to the upper tier magisters, but even amongst experienced mages of other races it was completely alien.

A human might be able to guess it held some magical purpose, but in the halls of Silvermoon city it was just another glowing runic array.

The human was escorted through the streets of Silvermoon as an honored guest, and Lor'Themar watched from Sunfury spire as he approached.

He was regally dressed in black silk pants, wearing a well cleaned white tailored shirt. He held the appearance of a well off sailor over a king.

When the human stepped inside the Inner Sanctum, and presented himself before Lor'Themar he bowed perfectly, and in the fashion elves do.

It seemed he had done his homework.

Marcus glanced breifly at the glowing purple set of lines below him, before he looked up to him.

"Lord Regent Lor'Themar Theron. Its a pleasure to meet you."

Lor'Themar nodded politely.

"King Marcus Moonbrook. The master of Westfall. We had only just received word of your existence before you appeared in our lands, presenting the head of our greatest enemy."

He looked into the humans eyes. He seemed pleased with himself.

"I do apologize for our doubts regarding your claims, but everything you've told us matches the evidence of what we've seen. Now I simply have to hear the story myself."

The man nodded.

"I understand, it makes sense to be suspicious in times like these."

Lor'Themar looked into the humans eyes.

"Was it truly you who killed Dar'Khan? How?"

It seemed best to get right to the point.

"You know as well as I that Dar'Khan hasn't been truly alive for quite some time, but I defeated him."

Lor'Themar glanced behind the human, looking to Rommath as he nodded.

When he looked back he gestured for the human to continue.

"I managed to break into the Fortress known as Deatholme, and in order to make certain the elves won the battle I cut off the connection the scourge had to the power sources within the ziggurat."

He spoke the truth. "And Dar'Khan? How could a human hope to defeat a master necromancer and mage?"

The human paused for a moment.

"When I first saw Dar'Khan I knew who he was, and I knew I couldn't beat him with the ability I had."

Lor'Themar leaned forward.

"I used a kind of magic he didn't expect me to. While I was in Westfall I came into a number of tomes on fel magic."

A light fel glow appeared in the humans hand, twirling about as he spoke.

"As I'm sure you know, the fel is one of best forms of combat magic for beginners, and I found myself particularly talented in it's use, with it I was stronger than most magic users of my level of experience."

A smirk grew on the human's face.

"While I was trying to leave Deathholme without being noticed he stopped me, and in a rather arrogant move he claimed he would kill me personally. but not after allowing me to make the first move."

Marcus shrugged.

"Most would expect someone of my reputation of using necromancy. As Dar'Khan was unaware of the kind of magic I was capable of, I gathered all the power I could into a single attack, one far more powerful than a reasonable person could expect from a middling necromancer."

He laughed.

"Even in the end, Dar'Khan didn't really understand what I had done to defeat him."

Rommath stepped away, removing his power from the circle. "He spoke no lies."

The humans head tilted, an honest grin on his face.

"Shall we talk business then?"


	62. Chapter 62

I had given the Elves the same story, making certain to keep the details relatively light unless pressed.

I had taken some time to think about how a standard magic user could manage to overcome a master like Dar'Khan.

Then it came to me, why not just use the occasion where I almost managed to do just that?

Admittedly I had not expected the spellcraft used against me, and I almost didn't recognize what its purpose was.

Then I remembered something, a shadow of a memory.

Felendren's father. my father, bragging about his hand in the creation of an array while he was working under the Grand magister.

He had been so proud of himself, our family had celebrated that entire night.

I had only caught a glimpse of it from his tome, but It was enough.

It had been difficult to say only the truth, but the fact that those things had actually all happend, if in a different order than I let on, gave me enough room to confirm my own story.

It would have been a shame if I hadn't, being caught in the deceit would have hurt my reputation at the very least, and shorn apart my plans before they even began at the worst.

"Shall we talk business then?"

Time to see what my gamble won. Lor'Themar nodded.

"You've earned the good will of my people human, you have my ear."

I smiled.

"I'm not certain what you've heard regarding my countries inception, but we are trying to rebuild over a decade of neglect and bloodshed."

Lor'Themars face gave little away, but considering our peoples recent history he can sympathize.

"We have no intention of establishing ourselves as a member state of the Alliance or the Horde. Westfall has no interest in involving themselves in the war at this time."

Lor'Themar motioned to an elf in the corner, who began writing as we spoke.

"In order to see my lands built into what they should be, and not just another puppet state, I've been working to see trade established with as many peoples as I can. Our wealth is not insignificant, but at present we have little means of restoring whats been spent."

He seemed to realize where I was going with this.

"As unfortunate as it is, I couldn't help but notice the condition of the land your people just reacquired, thousands of acres of decimated farmland, unlikely to be restored for years, perhaps decades to come."

The elf grimaced, but allowed me to speak on.

"While the farmlands of Westfall have been damaged by the Defias to say the least, we do have an abundance of fertile land, and even now farmers are streaming in to establish themselves a new life and a new home."

I'm familiar with this problem as well. Mage food can only take you so far when you have a country to feed.

"Damaged as it is we will soon have enough of an abundance to begin trading, and as our two nations exist on the same continent the transport of the food will be far less expensive."

The elf's hand rose up to stroke a well maintained goatee.

"I would be inclined to agree with you, but as you are well aware the majority of my peoples ships have been stolen by the wretched pirate clans."

I nodded. "Indeed it has, but with Horde support I'm certain it'll only be a few short months before the pirates are pushed away from the easy target your coasts represent right now."

"We are currently working on putting together something like a trade fleet, and if you haven't enough ships for proper trade before then I'm certain some sailors would be willing to travel to the elven lands, they are still renowned for their beauty.

I shrugged. "Besides, our trade interests extend far beyond food alone."

His brow rose.

"Goblin engineering, Dwarven smithing, both of those things and several more could be acquired by individuals on either side of this war. Given enough time to grow it could be quite lucrative."

He motioned for me to continue.

"As it is however I have little means to reach out to the horde. I understand your current position within the Horde is relatively new and largely undecided, however I would have you establish my peoples neutrality to the warchief."

He hummed. "I see no reason I cannot bring it to Thrall's attention, though I fear it will have little affect on opinion regarding your nation."

I grinned.

"Maybe, but I hear this 'Thrall' is a reasonable sort, even considering the past humans and orcs hold. If an ally, even a tenuous one, vouches for us he will listen."

Thrall was an orc with a relatively soft disposistion regarding humans. His very first friend was a farmgirl if I remembered correctly.

"If my position is still in question after that I would hope our participation in Outland will be enough to sway his mind."

I sighed.

"I'm afraid I'm a poor mind for politics, I simply wish to see my people safe, both from those who would seek to harm them, and the poverty that consumed so many of us. If it doesnt trouble you I'd like to return to my home and prepare for the war in Outland."

Lor'Themar chuckled.

"Not at all! To be honest I've always been more suited to the battlefield than words. I'm certain our advisers can work out the exact particulars, We can have a portal put together once you've been given your prize."

I rose a brow. "My prize?"

"Yes, We put a sizable bounty on Dar'Khans head some time ago, and considering your aid in the last battle, we added what we could to it as a sign of good will."

I frowned. "Theres no need to-"

"Nonsense! My people are safe for the first time in months and the scourge has been all but pushed out of Quel'Thalas. We put a kings bounty on the traitors head, and who better than a king to take it?

I sighed. "I'll make sure to use it well, then. How much gold is Westfall to expect?"

The Elves were one of the wealthier peoples around before the scourge struck, and with so many members of the nobility dead I imagine quite a sum went directly into the cities Coffers.

Lor'Themar smirked. "Enough."


	63. Chapter 63

Silvermoon had been a fun experience, even more so with the prospect of the wealth coming my way.

I should have figured there would be a bounty, Dar'Khan was probably the person the entire country most wanted dead, bar perhaps the lich king himself.

I hadn't seen the city since before the Scourge invasion, and the sight of the city, just as beautiful as it had always been, was refreshing.

The "attendents." Lor'Themar had sent my way had been pleasant as well.

They had heard through the grapevine a little of what had happend, and where very eager to show their thanks.

But eventually the time came were I would need to leave.

I stayed in the city for another day as my prize was arranged.

When the time came I was presented with no less than seven carts of gold, gems, and other assorted wealth.

Each cart was drawn by a healthy and well cared for stallion.

It was difficult to put a number to on sight alone, but I had been informed it was upwards of thirty thousand gold.

It was at the very least a considerable portion of the wealth the defias had stolen in the more than a decade they had horded it.

A dozen Elves in enchanted plate armor, blood knights, surrounded my new treasures.

"A show of friendship." Lor'Themar had said.

A group of magisters stood behind the knights, bringing power to a series of inscriptions, and over them a tear opened in reality.

Home lay beyond. I smirked at the sight.

I was bid a fond farewell from Lor'Themar himself, alongside several of his advisors. He suggested I leave before word of my actions spread fully.

I took the advice, I did not have time for celebration, and I would certainly be pulled into them if I remained any longer.

Soon I would be at war with the legion itself, and directly too. Good.

I strode through the portal easily, followed by my temporary helpers.

Dozens of drawn blades met my eyes. I rose my hands into the air, my smirk growing at the sight of a small army of soldiers on the other side. "We come in peace, defenders of Westfall."

Things had changed since I had left, the weapons were better tended to, and they were all equiped in plate armor as most of the infantry men in Stormwind were.

Many of them wore a new tabbard, A black skull on a green background.

The garrison of Sentinel hill bowed at my words, the officer at their head called out to me.

"My lord! We had received word your travels to Silvermoon, but we did not expect you to return so soon!"

He looked to my entourage in surprise.

"Nor did we expect you to arrive in such a manner."

I could see why, the creation of a portal in this manner, one that had not been prepared on both sides, was an incredible expenditure of energy.

The magisters had probably drained several of the massive fel crystals used to power the cities magics just to create it.

"I ran into some trouble on the way, and the Elves were kind enough to arrange a quicker means of transportation."

His eyes fell on the wealth being carted forward. "The...talks...went well then?"

I chuckled. "Yes, they did indeed."

I turned to the bloodnights. "You may return to Silvermoon. My men can take the carts from here."

One of the elves looked at me through a visored helm, before nodding. His fist rose in the air, and at the sight of it clenching the rest of the knights walked back through the portal.

My soldiers sheathed their blades, looking to me as the portal faded away. I paused before I spoke again.

"So Stoutmantel and Ebonlocke decided on a standard then?"

He looked down to his tabard, before looking back up to me.

"Yes my lord, the green for the fields of Westfall, and the skull for, well-"

"Me?"

He nodded.

"Fair enough then. Gather some men and ready the wealth for transport. I need to speak to Stoutmantel about whats to come."

He saluted. "Yes, King Marcus." before striding off.

I walked to the tower of Sentinel Hill, watching as hundreds of people went about their business, slowly rebuilding their lives.

It was funny. This land was arguably one of the most impoverished and oppressed places in Azeroth not too long ago.

And yet, as more monstrosities emerged from the shadows, as the world tetered closer and closer to destruction, these lands will only grow.

As the rest of the world is ground into nothing, this kingdom will be a beacon of false hope.

One day the world will find itself hanging from a ledge, reaching out to us for help.

They'll find nothing but our boots stomping down on them.

Stoutmantel greeted me as an old friend when I finally entered the tower.

"Marcus! I'll admit I was disappointed to hear you would be departing so soon after you had decided to go personally to Outland. Our timetable would have made it impossible."

He laughed, smacking me on the back. "With a few days to spare aswell!

"I never would have thought you'd convince the Elves to teleport you! and with a great pile of gold no less!"

Something about my face put a damper on his good cheer, he went silent shortly after.

"How are the troops?"

His face grew serious.

"Over the past two months we've had an influx of soldiers, many of the men come from the homeless the alliance sent to us."

He thought for a moment.

"Four thousand new recruits outside of the guard for the countryside, well enough trained for bandits I suppose."

I sighed."But not the legion?"

He shook his head. "I fear as it is we'll lose most of them."

I sat down at the table of the war room as he spoke further.

"They know the risks, and they are loyal if nothing else."

I shook my head. "I can't take them with me."

He scoffed.

"You arent suggesting going alone? The nation wouldnt stand for it! I-"

He was readying to work himself into a tirade.

"While I was with the Elves I heard grave news. Spies report the Amani trolls have left their lands in their entirety, sailing for a war with the Gurubashi in the name of the resurgence of their empire.'

He silenced immediately.

"Truly?"

I nodded. "They'll be sailing past Westfall in a few months. If they find any success in that war we'll have a new and very dangerous neighbor."

I looked at him seriously. "I'll spend the next few days gathering what mercenaries I can for Outland, but I need you to focus on establishing fortifications along Deadwind pass and the mountain boundary into Stranglethorn."

He slammed his fist onto the table, before taking a breath.

When he looked at me again it was with steel in his eyes. "It will be done."

I placed a hand on his shoulder as I began to make my way out. "I know."


	64. Chapter 64

The Ogres of Vul'Gul Ogre mound were as proud, vicous, and cruel as any other members of their race.

They had raided, pillaged and enslaved the denizens of Duskwood for longer even then the curse had plagued their lands.

The ogre mound was like any other of its kind, a "small" camp of ogres guarding a massive network of caves dedicated to housing the rest of the tribe, and whatever wealth they had accrued from their time as raiders.

At this time of night the only Ogres present were two guards.

This particular tribe was known as the Splinter-fist, who had long since warred with and exterminated the original tribe of ogres that had lived within.

They were well armed and well equipped monsters standing between ten and twenty-five feet tall, weilding slabs of metal "forged" from the remnants of their victims equipment.

The Ogre race arrived on Azeroth around the same time the orcs did, hailing from the very same land.

From the night sky I could tell they had flourished in the years since the alliance had abandoned Duskwood.

I had been watching them for a few hours now.

The fact that the ogres weapons were all composed of metal, and that a number of Half Ogres worked alongside them as a low class warriors and slaves made that clear enough.

As far as Ebonlocke had made me aware the increased numbers of the Splinter-fist tribe meant they had stopped taking slaves some time ago.

They had been eating the humans or occasional dwarves who ended up in their territory over forcing them to work.

With the curse's inception the Ogres had become something of an after thought to the denizens of Duskwood.

Disappearences and killings were almost always attributed to the worgen or the undead, which, in a way was actually quite helpful.

It meant that the racial hatred most humans had for the ogres was more distant, a matter of verbal exchange and storytelling over actual experience.

It presented an opportunity for me. Like Orcs Ogres, were a natural warrior race, except they had a far lower concept of loyalty than the orcs did.

The Ogres followed the strong, and the strong often followed the easiest path to wealth, sex, and glory.

I had more than enough wealth to convince their leader to join me, if he was intellegent enough to listen before he tried to kill me, but I had no intention of spending a single coin on these creatures.

The Ogres were after all a martial culture, based largely after following those stronger and larger than themselves.

My favorite kind of culture to be honest.

The simplicity of it was so easy to take advantage of.

I landed with a crash just outside of the massive entrance to the cave the majority of the Ogres resided within. A few hundred if I had to assume.

With a lazy swipe of my claws one of the ogres standing guard fell, writhing, to the ground as blood poured through several large gashes across his body.

**"Bring me to your boss."**

I said it casually as I watched my victim bleed out.

The Ogre guard, now considerably paler, twitched at my command, before running down into the cave, screaming "Boss! Boss!" as he disappeared into the tunnels.

I huffed at the sight.

I paused as I was about to make my way inside, before looking to the still form of the ogre I had attacked.

He was an average specimen, around twelve feet of fat and muscle. I worthy test subject.

He was still alive, I could hear his heart beating.

My claws glowed green as I gestured at him, and his wounds sealed shut with a hiss.

I took a step back as he awoke with a grunt, pulling himself from the ground. He shook his head.

"Wha happen?" He asked grogily.

**"I let you live."**

He let out a gasp, falling to his knees as he took notice of me fully. "Dragon!"

And that was the downside to Ogres. It was possible for Ogres to reach a human level of intelligence, but that was a trait usually reserved for their leaders or spell casters

At least he knew his place. **"Yes, I am a dragon. The god of these lands. I am Malius."**

He bowed further at my words. "God spare Jarg?"

I sighed, **"Yes, you will serve me as your god, and in return you will be the boss of this tribe."**

He nodded to me a few to many times "Jarg serve Malius, Jarg be boss!"

I felt his soul reach out to my own, his belief in his new god already steadfast.

**"Hold still for a moment."**

The blood still covering his form stretched around his body, forming symbols reminiscent of tribal tattoos.

His skin paled, and the crimson of his tatoos faded into obsidian. His dumb grin turned considerably crueler as my magic poured into him.

I had created with my own work a considerably less effective but less costly set of bloodrunes, not dissimilar to the ones I had carved into my own flesh

They charged at the vitality of blood spilled in their vicinity in return for a considerable increase in strength.

Antheol has theorized they would also bring about a more feral edge to the bearer of the runes.

**"Take me to your old boss."**

He nodded as I reverted to my elven form, leading me further into the cave system.


	65. Chapter 65

The tunnels of Vul'Gul were massive. Twenty feet wide and around thirty feet tall.

It was easy to see why massive creatures like the ogres lived within it.

They had probably taken years to carve out a place for themselves, and now it was nearly perfect for them.

The path we walked was sparse, but well lit, and many Ogres had already charged out to greet us, not that it mattered.

Jarg, my newest servant, had been quite thorough is scaring the majority of his fellows into allowing us to pass, it only took him easily overpowering several larger ogres for his new place in the tribe to be established.

Even now Jarg dragged the broken body of a particularly strong challenger by the mouth, the broken jaw of the ogre pitifully mewling as he was taken with us.

I jumped back as a massive club thundered upon the ground I once stood.

Unfortunately it wasnt so secure that a few Ogres didnt try their luck at the human trailing behind him.

With a quick flex of my hand, vines burst around the attacker before any could join him, and he died screaming as they tightened and crushed him into nothing but paste.

The rest backed off, but I had a feeling once we got far enough ahead the others would try the same.

It'd be alot simpler if I could assume my true form inside this cave, but if I did it would be all but impossible to manuever around.

Plus there was no garuantee I wouldnt scare them into attacking me blindly. If they thought they were backed into a corner there would be little to do but kill them, and that would be a waste.

People were unlikely to care about me killing Ogres, but the act of raising them was likely to draw far too much of the wrong kind of attention.

A single human necromancer of moderate strength would never manage such a feat, and even if he could stronger necromancers could easily take it away from him.

Considering the demons invented modern necromancy I wasn't certain I could maintain control even at my best. So I would be avoiding overt necromancy in Outland, at least until I found a means of control that couldnt be overpowered.

Still, this whole situation did bring up an interesting thought. I took human form for leisure and appearances, I took my draconic form for fear and battle, but what about places like this?

I would only grow larger as time went on, and while that would always have its uses it would be pertinent to find a form of use in combat that my draconic form would be less effective in.

I put the thought aside as we entered an open chamber. It was almost a clan hall in its design, with several large tables aligned across from a throne made of a mixture of metal and bone.

I looked around the cavern, taking note of its size. It would have to do.

Half breed Slaves tended the ogres needs and they feasted on a mixture of worgen flesh and the occasional human body.

Upon the throne twenty feet of pure muscle leisurely sat, wearing the scrapped together armor of what I distantly recognized as Alliance footman's plate.

Probably killed quite a few of them to get all of it too.

Several particularly large ogres brandished their weapons at us, and a booming voice echoed out to greet us.

"A human in my hall? What a surprise!"

The Ogre warlord laughed, drinking from a flagon of some kind of alcohol.

"I assume you're the dragon that my guard reported about? An interesting choice of body to wear."

It seems this Ogre was one of the smart ones. I smiled.

"Of course I am." A number of the Ogres facing us shifted uncomfortably, even their dull minds realising the danger they were in.

"Why are you here?" It was a fair question, If a dragon randomly crashed my house I would be curious too.

I looked behind me, noticing the growing crowd of ogres emerging from the tunnels around us.

I let my eyes glow, and I spoke with my true voice.

**"I am here to collect those who would wish to serve a god. One willing to offer power and strength."**

I gestured to Jarg as he broke the neck of the victim he brought with him.

**"This one was weak, and now hes stronger than any of you."**

It was a bit of an exageration. Im sure there were a few who might have been able to beat my ogre in single combat, but with me so close it'd be easy to overpower the inscriptions on his body.

But they didn't know that, and already I could see them considering it, the tribe wondering at the prospect of strength.

The warlord grimaced. He realised I had not come to make this offer to him.

"A mighty creature such as a dragon is truly something to be feared and respected, but you stand in my hall."

He leaned forward, and across the chamber my eyes could make out his jagged teeth flashing in my direction.

"And even dragons can die."

He was playing it cool, but I could hear his heart beating rapidly. He knew he could lose control of his tribes loyalty if he didn't prove himself the strongest.

I heard a grunt as my ogre tore a twisted metal hammer from anothers hands, before smashing it into the ground. "Enough talk! Time to prove strength!"

Jarg slowly approached the Ogre on the throne. He twitched lightly as the magics inside of him grew all the stronger.

His breath misted red, and I heard a growl emerge from his throat.

The warlord stood, hefting an axe that was actually well forged. "Come now Jarg, you cant really believe you can beat me?"

He towered over my servant, stepping forward.

I felt hesitation reflect back to me, before I poured rage into his body.

Jarg answered with a howling cry, before throwing himself forward.

The warlord's axe came up to block the first strike lazily, and the two weapons met with a clash. The lazy grin on the larger ogres face turned to a from as he was driven a few paces back.

Blind and animalistic rage met experience and strength.

The cheiftan grunted as he tried to strike back, before falling back once more to block a flurry of blows.

I couldn't have asked for a better advertisement. The ogres began to murmur amongst themselves as an ogre nearly half the size of their leader fought him to a standstill.

Their weapons struck each other in a cacophony of noise, meeting each other as Jarg fought to force the axe from his old chieftains grip, and the chief fought to keep the hammer from striking him fully.

Eventually something had to give. With a screech of metal Jargs hammer gave way to a particularly savage blow, and came apart, leaving the warlord free to attack.

He pulled his axe back with a laugh, bringing it down with force enough to crack stone and tear men apart.

My servant fell to his knees, screaming as the axe bit deeply into his shoulder. The larger ogre leaned in, jagged teeth grinning wide as Jarg bled into his blade.

I sighed. At this rate this would now take alot more bodies than I'd like.

The ogre leader laughed as he pushed his blade further into my servant.

The laughter rang out across the hall, echoing down the tunnels.

The laughter went on as my slave struggled to keep the axe from going deeper. It seemed for a moment I would have to handle this myself.

Before Jargs grip tightened around the haft of the blade, and his forehead met the warlords teeth.

He tried to back away, howling as he spat broken teeth and blood into the air, only to halt as my servants other hand wrapped around his arm.

With a mighty heave he pulled the chieftan back towards him, smashing his head again into his jaw and knocking the screaming monster to the ground.

Jarg stepped forward, ripping the axe out as he did.

"Wait!" I nearly laughed at the sound.

The warlord had managed to call out as the axe was planted deep into his skull.

I strode over as Jarg turned, raising the axe into the air. Victory.

Glorious and bloody.

"Jarg! Jarg! Jarg!" The Ogres called out.

A pale dragon rose behind the newest chieftain of the Splinter-fist tribe as he collapsed into the throne.

**"Serve me! Serve me and this power is yours!"**

The dragon growled as the ogres screamed out in agreement.

**"Serve Malius, God of the Dark Hunger!**


	66. Chapter 66

I licked the blood of the Ogre chieftan of Deadwind pass from my claws, taking in the bowing forms of his clansmen and feeling as their souls connected to my own.

There had been little fanfare in the conquest, the Ogres were quick to bow after I slaughtered their leader, and with the offer of strength their loyalty was confirmed.

With the two tribes united I had little over a thousand ogres under my command. Considering Ogres size and relative strength it was a force to be reckond with.

A human force of ten times the size would falter at their approach if they chose to meet them in close combat.

With demons it would be considerably more closely matched even on even terms. However without human eyes on me I would be free to fight without holding myself back in most situations.

I would need it if I wanted to make the kind of headway I was looking for.

I sent several Ogres away in search of other tribes, as a means of spreading my own influence. Many Ogres would take the bait, offering their souls out to me in return for the strength I offer.

Without me to personally apply the blood runes around they would be relying on my patronage alone, but as my followers increased in number so too would the power I could bring to bear.

It was unlikely any would be joining my fold before we set to march, but that wasnt why I was expanding my influence as a wild god.

I spread my wings as the Ogres began to stand and began making their way to Vul'gul to await my command.

Jarg would command them well enough in my short absence, and perhaps take the time to learn a little more on how he would lead.

With the Ogres allegiance secured and my army all but ready to march into Outland there was only one last piece of preparation that needed to be settled before I left this world.

In the cover of night I flew the skies of Westfall, taking in the territory that belonged to me for the first time from the sky.

Rolling hills of green as far as the eye could see, human settlements rising up to take advantage of new opportunity.

Soon my eyes fell on my target. I had all but wiped it from the map when I first made landfall here, but the small village off the coast stood rebuilt and repopulated as if nothing had happend.

If I didn't now better I would say nothing had changed since a wraith laid waste to their small piece of land.

However my sharp eyes picked up on the more regimented patrols, and the stronger weaponry they wielded.

A dragon landed with a boom just outside the smattering of small huts, eliciting gurgled screams of terror from its inhabitants.

I laughed as the murlocs attempted to escape into the sea, tossing their weapons into the air as they did.

Corrupted roots tore themselves from the ground, wrapping around the legs and bodies of the fleeing creatures.

A murloc was a barely humanoid individual with a body resembling a fish without a tail, and arms and legs to replace it.

They infested the beaches of Azeroth, inhabiting small villages in every corner of the world.

They were well adapted creatures capable of surviving under water or on the surface, and they could live by the ocean or by lakes and rivers.

They were only on average as strong as gnomes or human children, however they made up for it in cunning and sheer capacity to breed.

Murlocs bred in incredible number, and quickly too. It would only take a few weeks for a murloc to grow from an egg to physical maturity.

They also tended to lay eggs in large quantities, and if not for their relative weakness they would be a considerable threat to Azeroths safety.

As it was people considered them a nuisance and a danger to passing merchants and local villages.

However they were surprisingly intellegent, and had souls just like most humanoids.

I let the roots rot away from the legs of a nearby murloc, snatching him in my claws carefully as he attempted to escape.

Unlike Ogres murlocs had no common languages with humanoid races, and they often spoke in dialects of their own langauge. Mrglish or something.

That made things somewhat harder for me, but as my runes began to form around his skin, etching into his flesh I found myself doubting that would be a problem.

Murlocs were of a special interest to me, their adaptable nature making them easy targets for bloodmagic.

The murloc I held squirmed as more and more runes burned themselves into his flesh, but he did not die.

I had little time to mess with his biology, but it was easy to increase his strength and aggression, forcing the magic to corrupt him into a larger size.

When I finally allowed him onto the ground he had grown from four feet tall to around six and a half and his already jagged teeth thinned to needle-like points.

His flesh had paled from a bright green to white, clashing strongly against the blackened tatoos now covering his form.

His eyes had whitened to the point I would have been certain he was blind if his head wasnt tracking my movement with interest, looking right at me.

I kept my eyes on him as he silently observed the changes to his body.

When he looked back at me I could tell he was confused, but after a few moments of eye contact he fell to his knees, before groveling at my feet.

His strange soul quickly merged with my own.

When I was certain the Murlocs were getting the message I began to let them free, and as one they approached my form, falling to their knees just as their compatriot had.

They gurgled amongst themselves as I bestowed my blessing, speaking in hushed tones of me.

With them connected to me I had something of an understanding of their thoughts and ideas.

When all had been converted to my cause I left them with the message of spreading my faith to others of thier kind, starting with those within Elwynn forest. They were to crusade against thier kind, bringing all they could into my servitude.

They were to avoid contact with humans, attacking them onsight but not seeking them out, building their strength from attacking and preying on other tribes.

Considering their new size I doubted it would be a problem.

With my message established I took to the air again, taking a few hours to enjoy my land.

I had little intention of keeping this place as my primary base of operations any longer, and It could be over a year before I lay eyes on it again.

Soon I would have a new place to study, and to grow.

Outland was an icon of terror for many, but its valuable in so many ways.

It was a place to gather power and knowledge, and it was a place to retreat.

It would be difficult to manage, even for me, but If I succeeded in conquering Outland, perhaps under the guise of a different party, I would be in a position of power few could truly realize.

Outland was a barren waste in most places, but it had much to offer in mineral and magical wealth.

The territory was filled to the brim with portals to other worlds, most of which were under legion control, but a few were unknown and unafiliated.

It was practically a galactic level superhighway for any number of beings to traverse the cosmos, and it was a high value target.

Most importantly it was not Azeroth.

As time went on and my changes to the course of events began to affect the world more and more, I would find myself in ever increasing danger.

If someone aside from myself succeeded in conquering, destroying or consuming the world I would have a bastion of safety to fall back into.

The Dark Portal connected Azeroth to Outland, but it could be shut off or fortified. If the worst came to pass and my efforts failed I would be alive and well.

My first efforts on this world were for self preservation, and while my ambitions have expanded my priorities remain unchanged.

Even if everyone and everything falls, I will survive.


	67. Chapter 67

When I arrived back to Vul'Gul I was certain I had done all I could to prepare for my departure.

An army of over a thousand Ogres, and a couple hundred half-breed slaves met my approving gaze.

The Ogres had gathered their impressive might and awaited my orders, The murlocs were readying to start their own little crusade in my absence, and I had left my orders inside Moonbrook for my servants when they eventually arrived by ship.

I had given the Ogres two days to intermingle and associate with each other, and I presented my standard to the Ogres.

Four ogre bannermen stood at the head of my army, holding up the flag of Westfall, and more still intermingled with the rest of the line of warriors marching down the road.

It wouldn't do for people to mistake the ogres as attackers, traditionally ogre mercenaries came in smaller number, and were intermingled with their representative benefactor.

Especially considering the allegiances of the Ogres that reside within the Blasted lands

I was taking steps to establish their loyalties to all viewers.

I sent a golem with a message to Sentinel hill of the beginning of my march, and after assuming my human form we began our journey.

I hadn't taken the time to observe Duskwood from the inside, but while the land still had a number of undead and worgen wandering about their numbers had been declining sharply.

My Harvest Golems stalked the land, gathering lumber and purging all they came across. As we marched I saw many of the wandering the woods near the road, clearing out lines of trees as they did.

Their numbers had increased of late, my Goblins had been working hard to see them produced.

It was as shame I could not bring them along, but without the ability to maintain them myself, and their relative weakness to rocky terrain meant that was impossible until they were improved.

We passed abandoned villages and homes, listening to the distant sounds of buzzing saws and howling worgen.

_Malius._

I stopped, holding my hand up to halt the march.

I felt a spike of pain in the back of my head, before I looked in the direction of a cluster of Woodland I had my Golems avoid.

It was a patch of dense forest inside of a crater, one filled with trees of a breed unaffiliated with the common oak of Duskwood.

A type of tree more readily associated with the Night elves.

The twilight grove, a portal to the Emerald dream. A primordial reflection of the world, one associated with my breed of dragon.

I shook my head, there was little that place had to offer but corruption and servitude for me.

I was keeping my golems from harvesting that portion of the land in hopes of avoiding the attention and ire of my cousins.

And my mother.

I motioned for the army to continue, stepping past the fork in the road leading to the nightmare.

I ignored the whispers that followed me, making a note to fly when traveling through this area in the future.

We made short time, and whatever undead or worgen that still haunted these woods avoided conflict.

We marched through Deadwind pass, picking up any Ogres who hadnt marched to Vul'Gul, before moving onward to the Swamp of Sorrows.

It was...strange traveling through the place.

Itharius was a kind protector, teaching us how to hunt and how to work together.

He had even protected us from the Trolls those few times they tried to take us away for their experiments with resurrecting Hakkar.

If my senses were correct they were making progress. I could feel a portion of what I assumed to be Hakkar feeding off of the place, and his power saturated the swamps.

He was among the more powerful Loa, one that many considered a threat on a worldly scale.

I planned on consuming him when I returned, even If I had to resurrect him myself. Especially if I had to do it myself.

Pulling portions of him from the realm of the dead would be far easier than the alternative of fighting him as an equal, and it would grant me considerable power over the trolls.

Hakkar was an evil deity, but the whole of the Gurubashi worshiped him, and they weren't alone.

It was five days after we departed Vul'Gul that broke past the swamp, and into the blasted lands.

I had us move at as quick a pace we could manage as soon as we crossed the threshold.

The red desert before us was far from safe for a traveling army. The Horde and the Alliance had outposts here, but it was the legion itself that truly controlled this land.

The Dreadmaul Ogres were the reason we moved quickly. They were a particularly numerous and powerful tribe, one controlled by several demons.

Considering the incredible corruption of this land, and the hairs rising along the back of my neck, strong ones too.

Lords of the burning legion were hidden in this land, creatures I was hesitant to fight.

On even ground I could fight one of them with a passable chance at victory, my unknown nature granting me an advantage over them.

However in their own territory, and among their greatest servants it would be impossible for me to kill any of them quickly enough before they found a way to kill me permanently.

I had been using my undying nature to my advantage for quite some time now, before I even found my true name, but eventually someone was going to figure out traditional means don't work.

I would prefer to keep that knowledge to myself for as long as possible.

We stuck to the road, keeping the march going until night fell. I kept watch as my servants set camp, avoiding rest or study to be ready for attack.

With the siege of Outland fully underway the Legion wasn't likely to appreciate reinforcements. If we were noticed before we drew close enough to the Dark Portal we would be attacked.

It would be a risk to my identity to be seen fighting with my Ogres.

With that in mind I decided to take flight, not as dragon, but as a carrion bird. A common creature to deserts such as these.

Most of my kind cared little for changing into beasts of the land. It was demeaning, and if discovered left us vulnerable.

I would never have taken the risk if I couldn't heal.

I watched all night for attackers. None came.

Somehow I doubted our passing had gone unnoticed.


	68. Chapter 68

Vordrul the menacing had lived a life of blood and conquest for decades. First, as the warlord to a minor clan of Ogres on Draenor, and then as a servant to the burning legion on Azeroth.

When the offer came to drink the blood of a doomlord, to accept its power into himself, he had relished it. He had felt the strength and rage coursing through his veins just as strongly now as it had twenty years ago.

Under his masters will he had personally led assaults on every point of interest within the blasted lands, conquering the Horde and the Alliance as he pleased.

On many occasions over the past ten years he had succeeded in his task, pushing the pathetic coalitions from the blasted lands and earning himself high regard among his new clan, the Dreadmaul.

It would not be long before he earned the right to challenge the current chieftain,Grol the Destroyer, and with the strength the demon blood granted victory would be all but assured.

Unfortunately the two ruling factions of the world had began to take the threat the blasted lands represented far more seriously.

With the Siege of Outland underway, and the traitor Illidan still in control of the majority of the shattered world the Alliance and the Horde entered a tenuous pact following the battle for the Dark portal.

The war would be set aside as a matter of survival. Armies marched for weeks into the Blasted lands and through the Dark portal, a constant stream of fresh bodies to the slaughter.

The Dreadmaul had worked hard to see their travels harried, initiating a campaign of guerrilla warfare and night attacks on the encroaching armies. Both factions lost hundreds before they even reached Outland.

The united armies would have easily been capable of wiping out the forces in the Blasted lands, their combined military might unmatched on Azeroth.

It was the pressing nature of their campaign the kept the Dreadmaul alive.

Even a day wasted against the legion could mean them seizing control of Outland in it's entirety, and giving the legions full might a direct entrance into Azeroth.

All the Alliance and the Horde could do was defend themselves as they forcibly marched through the Desert at a breakneck speed.

Unfortunately the Dreadmaul had too few to attack directly in the opening weeks, and The Horde and the Alliance established the Foothold they desired on the other side of the portal, setting outposts for both armies to work in tandem.

But while the two factions had been successful in their march their speed left them with an opening at their flank, supply lines and reinforcements were easily attacked and decimated as they traversed the sands.

This went on for nearly a year before word reached his demonic masters of a new army marching to provide their support.

The small and weak nation composed of Westfall and Duskwood's combined residents had gathered their support, and in a stunning display of wealth acquired the forces of two of the Ogre clans at their borders.

Scryers reported around twelve hundred Ogres marched under the newly made banner of Westfall, led by the rising star of Marcus Moonbrook.

A human necromancer rumored to have considerable power if the masters spies within Silvermoon were correct.

It was a considerable force for a nation of relative weakness, and if they supported the Horde and the Alliance in their campaign they could inflict considerable damage on the already weakened and scattered legion forces.

Perhaps it would even be difference enough for the forces of Azeroth to seize and destroy the portals legion forces were using to transport their armies.

If such an event came to pass it could set back the conquest of Azeroth by decades, a cost in time the masters of the legion would never allow for a world of such importance.

Sargeras himself would punish the ones responsible for such a failure. With that in mind master Razelikh, demanded the full march of the Dreadmaul clan.

From the first day of Westfalls march in the Blasted lands Vordrul sallied all who could march under his command, and with the aid of four thousand Ogres and a dozen warlocks of varying power made to intercept the passing of Marcus Moonbrook.

Up until now they had fallen back to simply harrassing their enemies forces, but Razelikh felt the need to send a message to all nations of the world.

Only the Alliance and the Horde have the power to march into the Blasted lands and survive the experience. If Westfall provided aid it was possible other unrelated forces would begin to help directly as well.

It was four days later that they closed in under the cover of night. Their warlocks had covered the armies march with a haze over the desert, working together in a great ungoing ritual every night.

With their approach obscured they could attack with complete surprise, and if all went well completely decimate the enemy forces.

Mere hours before the attack everything went wrong.

First the wind began to howl with a ferocity he had never seen in years of living within the Blasted lands.

Then the sands began to pick up around them, whirling around their entire army with such speed and force it began to tear even at the tough hides of the Ogres, many of which had been born to this land.

The desert storm was soon howling so loudly he could barely hear the screams of Ogres ten feet infront of him as the weather itself flayed them.

The sand obscured his vision, and he was forced to close his eyes before it blinded him like so many of his less fortunate fellows.

Over the wind he heard a warlock yell out. "There's magic to this storm!"

He was about to comment on the obviousness of the statement before he felt it. A rage gnawing at him.

He clamped down on it with an iron will, but only barely, his demonic blood helping him to resist it's effect.

His army could not say the same. He heard steel ring out, and spell-fire began to erupt all around him as everything within the storm began to turn on itself.

The ground shook as something large landed just behind him. Vordrul squinted through the storm, just barely catching sight of the massive shape of a dragon looming over him.

He took a step back as burning purple eyes glared at him through the sand.

Blood red fire erupted from its throat, and Vordrul the Menacing knew no more.


	69. Chapter 69

My roar echoed across the sand, muted only by the howl of the wind around me.

It was insulting, demeaning, and outright disrespectful. They sent four thousand Ogres and a smattering of casters to kill me?

I had been worried about retaliation, worried of the demons realizing what I am, and this was what they sent after me.

They dared to assume some pathetic mortals could halt my advance.

It took me a moment to clamp down on my anger. Letting my own rage fade away as it built within my victims.

The ogres frothed as they blindly attacked one another. Calling for blood in a manner I fond soothing.

The demons controlling this land had no idea what I really was. I had no reason to let that frustrate me.

It should have been good news, but I was on edge.

I tore through the army under cover of the sandstorm I had conjured, even as they threw themselves against each other.

I wet my claws in their blood and gorged myself on their flesh, letting their useless weapons bounce off my hide, and their spells be drawn into my scars.

In truth I was angry at myself. Ever since the nightmare called to me I had been nervous.

It was flaunting that it was corrupting my brethren. claiming it could pull me into the same servitude.

As I was now It was certain. If the nightmare could take Ysera, it could take me.

I had known that from the beginning, it was why I hadn't ventured the dream already. It was the boldness of the statement that bothered me.

The audacity of challenging me in such a manner.

If I was content to wait and allowed my strength to grow naturally in response to my current power, I would be stronger than any of the aspects within the next century.

That it could send such a message to me even with that knowledge was grating against my instinct, and I would see the insult repaid in full.

When the time came I would rip the heart of corruption out of the nightmare myself, and I would watch it scream.

For now I'll have to be content with the prospect of further strength, and the slaughter I was currently taking part in.

It was a waste of energy to handle things in this manner, especially considering I was certain I had no need of magic to handle this problem personally, but I had no intention of being caught.

My inscriptions should shield me from direct scrying, but just in case I called upon my powers as a spirit of nature as well.

With the right manipulation of the wind, and enough magic in the sand, I had a storm unlike any other.

Perfect privacy to work out my anger.

I swiped at an Ogre, tearing his torso from his body, before I breathed magical flame into their ranks.

The blood magic writhing inside them made it so they barely even noticed, fighting one another even as flame melted their flesh away.

A warlock attempted to drain my life away, only to melt away as the flow of energy reversed itself.

The remains of my victims rose up, striking down those living souls around them with the same madness that fell upon them in life.

Four thousand ogres died in ten minutes as the land, their allies, and even their own minds turned against them.

I took note of the fact that many of the ones who had consumed fel blood had a passing resistance to my influence on their bodies.

I imagine demons would be all but immune then. A shame.

By the end of the battle I stood atop a dune of sand overlooking an army of the dead.

I fed them a stream of poorly handled fel energy, and watched as their bodies began to combust into green flame.

I watched as the army collapsed into dust and ash, before I returned to my human form.

When I was sure their remains had been scattered to the four winds I released my grip on the storm.

When I turned back to where I knew my army awaited me, I was sure nothing but scattered weapons and ruined armor remained.

Hopefully it would give the Dreadlord controlling this place a good scare.

* * *

The forward guard of the Dark portal were solemn and unsung heroes of the war against the burning legion.

When the Dark Portal was reopened, and demons began to pour in from Outland the Horde and the Alliance had been quick to respond, attacking mere days following the first wave.

However when the time came to take the battle to the burning legion, it was decided that many needed to remain, and guard their weakened flank against those agents of the burning legion that survived the initial assualt.

A mixture of stalwart orks and humans alongside a number of other races worked together to see to it the forces of Azeroth were never cut off from supply or aid.

It was they who ensured the supply lines remained relatively safe, and that the portal never fell under the control of the Dreadmaul who fought so hard to see it theirs.

While the Horde and Alliance held off the legion from the front, it was them who held it off from behind.

It was thankless work, and many died forgotten within the desert sands, but they held to their duty as well as any could.

When the scouts reported an army of Ogres on the march they assumed the worst, and prepared to stand once again against the Dreadmaul.

When the first of their hulking figure appeared over the horizon many readied themselves for the battle to come.

The attacking force was only just over a thousand strong, but they had been battered for months and reinforcements had yet to arrive from the Outposts within the Blasted lands.

Victory was assured, but It was clear it would only be a costly prelude to the coming months.

It was only when their spyglasses caught the banner of Westfall that they allowed themselves a sigh of relief.

Reinforcements for the front. Marcus Moonbrook had delivered on his promise to aid in Outland.


	70. Chapter 70

The ragged forms of the forward guard greeted me as I approached the Dark Portal encampment.

It was a relatively small and recently made fortress, mostly just an encampment surrounded by walls constructed of wood, probably from the Swamp of Sorrows.

They were clearly constructed with the purpose of holding Ogres and other beings of such size back, around fifteen feet tall and at least two feet thick.

Even with that in mind the portal itself was large, around fifty feet tall and thirty feet wide.

It looked almost greek in design, the ramp and carved white stone leading to two alabaster guardians facing forward, wielding swords.

They were intricately carved, nearly lifelike in its splendour, and I could feel the font of magic powering the glowing green portal that existed between them.

I wore a charming smile as an elf, an orc, and a human came to greet me, moving through the now open wooden gates.

The orc led the group, wearing a ruined tabard of the Warsong clan.

"So your the rising star of Westfalll?" He huffed. "At least some humans can keep their promises."

I shrugged. "If Westfall is to be taken seriously we need to participate in matters of this scale."

I gestured behind me, to the lines of Ogres marching toward the portal, already many were crossing the threshold.

"This world of ours is in danger, and there is little I won't do to see my people safe."

He nodded, seeming satisfied. "I am commander Jar'fel, formerly of the Warsong."

He gestured to the armored elf at his left. "This is Bloodknight Tael'dren, our quartermaster-"

His head tilted to a human dressed in what was once a rich silk coat. "-and this is lord Henry Tarlock, the captain of our scouts."

"We can see your soldiers tended to, i-" I cut him off.

"Thats not neccassary, we'll part with what supplies we can to aid you in you're defense, and then we need to depart."

The orc scoffed. "Nonsense, you must have traveled for days through that desert, you're mercenaries must be exhausted! Starved!"

The elf put a hand on his shoulder, calming the commander for a moment.

"You could be facing desertion or revolt."

I looked back to the lines of Ogres marching with a quiet to them more common to trained and disciplined soldiers. They would do whatever I wanted them too.

"It's true, we are all tired, the Blasted lands have not been kind, but we have food to last for around two months, and the Horde and the Alliance have promised further supply."

I waved a hand at the camp around us. "Your soldiers, however, have been fighting in this place for months now. If we stay we'll only deplete your food supply. "

I began walking after my servants, my expression grim. "If you'll excuse me I have a forward encampment to establish, and a war to fight."

I wasn't waiting any longer than I already had.

I was already aware the forces of Azeroth would succeed in this struggle, and I had a free pass to operate without prying eyes in a land ripe for conquest.

I felt their eyes on me as I marched for the portal, and I closed my eyes and felt the change when I crossed the threshold.

I gasped as I felt it. Being torn from the realm I knew, and into a realm of chaotic energy and fel madness.

It hadnt been long since I connected myself to Azeroth and its nature, forging a connection as a spirit birthed by it's lifeblood.

I was disconnected in an instant, the world around myself alien and impossible to recognize. I stood on the corpse of a world, feeling the emptiness of what was once its magic.

I could feel whatever few spirits of nature that remained desperately trying to stay alive against the ocean of destructive and corruptive energy that sorrounded it.

I felt fel magic throughout every nook and cranny of the world, only lightly combated by the void and the light.

I felt the shattered remains of a worlds ley-lines, empty and in ruins. It was disturbing to be so isolated, so disconnected from it all.

I had a feeling that if I was a traditional wild god the transistion would have driven me insane. A being interconnected with countless spirits of nature suddenly finding itself alone.

I was alone in a way I had not realized I even could be. The possibility that represented hit me an instant later.

This place was all but empty of my kind. My only counterparts a cluster of dying spirits hundreds of miles away, and I was far stronger than they could ever hope to be.

I had an authority here that was all but impossible to describe. It was not unlike how it had been in the Ghostlands, but it was more complete, and it covered nearly all parts of this "world."

For now that meant I could express my power over nature more easily than I could even over the Ghostlands, if at a cost.

Without the ley-lines, the lifeblood of the world, I could not recover and restore myself. Energy expenditure I could regenerate in an hour on Azeroth would take days here, relying on only my own power.

I could restore my magical strength easily enough, but my power as a wild god was far more limited based off the energy this place gave off.

The ley-lines were empty and shattered, remnants of the world this once was a problem now, but they still had purpose and potential.

If I could reconnect them, reform them, I would be the sole spirit drawing upon it. I could-

"Are you alright sir?" I shook my head, before my focus drew on a human guard, his armor dirty and stained.

I took a breath. Not really.

"Take me to the leaders of this encampment, I need information about the campaign and what needs to be done."


	71. Chapter 71

I listened as the commanders droned on about the war effort, and what areas needed to be properly handled by each faction.

The defense was commanded by a horde officer, Lieutanant General Orion, an orc of considerable standing. Directly under him, and keeping Alliance men in check while Alliance interest are being preserved, was commander Duran.

My attentions however, were more focused on the nature of the realm I was currently inhabiting, and of the less traditional power I held.

General Orion gruffly spoke on the state of things, directing my attention to Thrallmar, and to the heavy assault the demons focused on this side of the Dark Portal.

"The Horde forces have been fighting the legion on all landmasses in some manner or other, but the worst of the fighting has been centered around Hellfire Citadel, located ninety miles west of here."

Commander Duran nodded with him.

"I'd say his forces would be of more use to us around the Black Temple, the Illidari have been content to have us fight the legion off ourselves, and have been bolstering their numbers for months now."

I nodded along as they contentedly ignored me. Most of the conversation was about where the two factions forces should be. They wanted my ear for what piece of the war effort I should aid in and nothing else.

I probably wasn't going to help either of them really, but I pretended to listen as they argued over what front was more important.

A spirit of nature relied on the ley lines to survive because unless they are of a certain level of strength they cannot restore their own strength.

To make up for this they draw from the ley-lines, each other, and from the life connected to them. Some spirits are connected to animals, some to plants, and some even learn to draw from the power of mortals belief.

All spirits do this passively, making up a web of interconnected energy that exists outside of traditional magic, and inside the Emerald dream. This was why druids often have to ask for the power of spirits, they're using the very life force of the spirits to create magical effects.

Everything from a giant to a weed was filled with that exact kind of life energy the spirits relied on. It sustains and powers them.

If a druid overdraws on such power it can kill the source of the life force they are drawing from, and if pushed further the spirit connected to them.

Many of the spirits here were dying from a lack of sources to draw upon.

In a place like this that fate was likely for any remaining spirits of nature, if not for the druids that were desperately trying to help them they would have died years ago. They had never had to adapt before.

For that mistake they would almost certainly die a slow death. Thankfully I had no such worries, but the lack of sources to draw upon was still dangerous.

I had no intention of allowing myself to remain in my present state. In a way I was stronger than ever, but without the ability to recover my energy quickly as a loa, I would be fighting with half my arsenal.

It could take months or even years to repair the Ley-lines for my own purposes, and even then the energy source would never be the pure arcane it is on Azeroth.

I had a different solution in mind. To other spirits it was unthinkable, but to me it was just more of the same.

I would make a means of producing life energy not from the arcane, but from the mixture of fel and arcane energies suffusing this place. A crime against nature I was all too happy to commit.

If I could produce plant life capable of absorbing that energy and flourishing on its own, it would in turn provide me with the life force I needed to recuperate.

It would be corrupted, poison to all but myself, but it would be enough. This land would flourish in a way the druids and shamans probably thought was impossible.

In the mean time I would need to focus on getting what power I could as quickly as possible.

Until I established a means of recovery I need power enough to manage the demon lords around here myself, and a proper holdout to manage my operations as a third party.

I smiled, easy enough then.

Now that I was in Outland I had an idea on what needed to be done here, and more importantly on what kind of skin I would be wearing.

It was important I established myself as the ruler of Outland without giving the forces of Azeroth a reason to fight me as they do Illidan, while also introducing myself as a force they don't want to anger.

Outland is dying, and most of the forces in charge of the war had little reason to stick around once It was clear the legion would not be a threat.

If a force rose up to claim Outland, one willing to negotiate an armistice, they would almost certainly listen. Especially if said force expressed an interest in destroying the portals littering the land.

In their minds it was only a matter of a few years before the last of the magics keeping the shattered continents of Outland together faded anyway.

Even if they managed to hold Outland for a few years they would be wasting hundreds of thousands of lives in doing so.

Unlike most warzones, many of those involved had little use for this place once it was over.

A third party would receive no argument. With that in mind I tapped the black marker on the portion of the map I knew to be Hellfire Peninsula.

"My forces will strike here, cutting off what supplies we can from the Fel-Horde, and freeing up the soldiers trying to lay siege."

Hellfire Citadel would be mine, and not even the Burning legion would be able to take it from me.


	72. Chapter 72

Hellfire Citadel was a massive fortress created by the orcs of Draenor before the planet was destroyed. It was a construction that spanned across Hellfire peninsula, dividing it almost cleanly in half.

The main castle was situated directly in the center of the Peninsula, looming over the main road from the Dark portal. It had survived the breaking of Draenor relatively untouched, with the only visible damage being the collapse of the ramparts, and the scorched black stone that made up the structure.

It was owned and controlled by a number of small clans of corrupted orcs, now known as fel-orcs. Unlike many of their brethren, these orcs coveted the strength and power demon blood brought them, and feasted even now on the blood of a captured general of the Burning Legion. A Pitlord.

The blood darkened their skin to crimson, and in many cases resulted in bones growing from their spines, forming into a number of spikes along their back. With their new power even the lesser numbers of the fel horde could match the forces of the Horde and the Alliance combined, if only on a defensive footing.

From their citadel the clans of the Fel-Horde doggedly defended the main road from the march of Azeroths forces, and made certain to hit the supply lines of those who managed to skirt around them.

The road itself was the most direct and efficient route through the territory, leading directly to the only paths that can be taken to reach the other landmasses of Outland.

It was also a grim reminder of the evils mortal beings were capable of. The road was paved in the bones of the Draenei people, leading outwards for over a hundred miles.

The Horde and the Alliance had a number of troubles with that fortress, while it was possible now for the forces of Azeroth to move their armies through the gaps in the ramparts relatively quickly, it hadn't always been the case.

The side roads leading through the gaps and into the other warfronts were paved months ago by the initial push, and that detour cost thousands of lives, and months of progress against the Illidari.

Now that the roads were paved and connected back around to the few foot paths capable of transporting armies to the other portions of Outland the Fel-Horde had gone largely ignored.

The generals of both Azeroth factions were willing to accept the damage to their supply lines over the kind of losses and time an extended siege would cost them.

At least they were before my forces arrived. I would be leading a series of counter attacks against the Fel-Horde, protecting supply lines where I could and giving the corrupted orcs a reason not to leave the safety of their walls.

We had taken up our Outpost roughly thirty miles from Hellfire Citadel, and now I conducted my operations from the relative safety of a particularly large crevice in the ground.

My Ogres only barely fit inside, but the defensibility, and isolation of the place made it worth my while. It kept me from the prying eyes of anyone but my own forces, and gave us a decent view of the fortress I planned to conquer.

It had been a few weeks since I made the suggestion of using my forces against the Fel-Horde, and we had made decent progress on our promises.

Every supply caravan that needed to be transported safely had at least ten ogres under my command defending it, and I had been making certain to attack the outposts just outside the citadels ramparts frequently.

I had been holding off on directly attacking the Citadel, partly because I wasnt certain when the next group of heroes would attack it, and partly because of my plans for this world.

It wouldn't do me much good if I attacked the fortress in my true form, only to catch the attention of a group of heroes inside.

So I waited, and I worked.

From within the crevice that was Jarg'Gron Outpost I stared down the form of a blackened apple tree. It was an interesting work of nature, one I had put most of my time here into creating.

The lack of proper sunlight, and any feasable watersource meant it had to rely soly on the energy it could find in this place. Which as of right now was almost exclusively fel magic, and my own power.

It had no leaves, the corruption of the energy inside of it had seen those replaced with poisonus needles resembling pine trees. Underneath the branches where a couple dozen fully ripe apples.

Each seemed almost deceptively healthy, and had vibrant purple flesh. I was told they didn't taste too bad either, even though they almost certainly contained enough corruption to be dangerous.

It even produced a small amount of natural energy for me to draw upon, if about as corrupted as its source implied. Their was only really one issue with it.

I had been tweaking its design for weeks now, but I had never managed to make it work properly. The tree had been taking in fel energy, and converting it into nature magic as well, but the problem was the amount of energy I needed to keep it stable.

It consumed far more natural energy than it produced to keep it from burning to ash as a result of the fel magic, and I had little success in seeing that change. I had reduced the amount of energy I needed for the tree by half, but at this point I was running out of options.

Even now a number of arcane runes burned into the side of the tree, helping it not to collapse in on itself.

It would be easier to give up, and try to stick to better sources of magic, but Outland was absolutely covered in fel magic, and unless I found a means of using that energy I wouldn't be able to grow anything capable of sustaining itself at all.

I took a bite out of one of my apples, listening to the sounds of my Ogres hammering metal into the bones of their fallen victims to be used as weapons.

I felt the fel magic inside the apple try and corrupt me further, before my runes burned into existence and pushed the fel magic down.

I drained the magic away from the apple, letting it rot into dust in my hand. Then I froze.

It was the same mixture of life and fel that existed in most corrupted beings, nothing special, but it wasn't the magic that covered the land.

I grabbed another apple, tearing it apart and taking one of the seeds, before I took a few steps back and tossed it to the ground. A moment of concentration, and a few breaths later roots grew into the earth, before another tree grew alongside the one I had created.

I cut off its absorbtion from the land around me, before I gestured to the apples on the tree I had first created.

They burst into a lightly glowing green mist, before suddenly drawing into my newest work. I closed my eyes, feeling out the tree as the fel energy fought to tear it apart.

I laughed as it consumed less and less of my own strength. It was still costing me more of my power than it gave, but It was far less difficult to keep it alive, now almost enough for me to start drawing on it myself.

It was easier for the trees to absorb a mixture of fel energy and my own to produce their own magic.

Their would be some loss as the fel energy refused to be converted properly, but it could be done.

I smiled. I knew what I needed to do.


	73. Chapter 73

A fel-orc writhed under my sword, impaled into the earth as his outpost burned around him. They had begun efforts to fill the gaps in the ramparts, and fully block off horde forces from advancing into the other portions of Outland.

I twisted the blade, and watched for a moment as he bled out. Ogres moved around me, scattering torches throughout the encampment. It would burn soon enough.

I took a breath of the stale air around me. My discovery with my apple trees had excited me.

Some distant portion of my being was excited at the prospect of creating life, of rebuilding a place as broken as this one. So many had thought such corruption impossible to heal, and now something like me was the first to change things.

Not a Naaru, not a pure wild god, and not a titan. Me.

All because I was willing to accept that corruption, "evil" magic, was just as much a part of creation as the light was. So many had tried to cleanse the land, to remove or overpower fel magic, and death magic.

They hadn't realized the necessity of accepting it.

I pulled the blade free as the last of the Fel-orcs either fled or died. It was a small encampment, only two or three hundred.

I had marched on them with around a hundred and fifty Ogres as this places approximation of night fell, and tore my way through them like a knife through butter.

My Ogres were at least as strong as any of their kind, and often far stronger. Even creatures like the orcs are incapable of facing such a foe in combat on equal footing.

When it was clear death was on the horizon a few fled, and many made to kill me. The "weakest" link.

It was always funny to watch the surprise in their eyes when I moved so quickly they could barely follow me with their eyes, when my sword carved through their flesh and armor as if it wasnt there at all.

Of course at this point they were beginning to figure out there was more to me than meets the eye. It had only been a little over three months since my arrival, and already the name Marcus Moonbrook could be heard whispered by any in Outland.

I always did enjoy being well known. There was a certain victory to the feeling of hardened soldiers recognizing you, nodding their respect.

It was even better when people didn't stop to question certain aspects of my ability. If I had been in this land a year ago every soldier with a modicum of intelligence would ask why an escaped necromancer was capable of fighting on equal footing with the best of them.

Now it was just proof I was as good as the rumors said. I kneeled, placing my hand into the ruined earth and soil under me.

The dead fel-orc's blood spread immediately, covering the distance of the encampment in a few moments, before forming into a series of sigils and runes I knew to be anti scying magic.

I felt them strain against the heat of fel magic, before finally blocking my audience. Helfire Citadel had been trying to watch me for a couple of weeks now, realizing that their recent woes were the fault of a single individual.

I imagine I have something of a price on my head at this point.

Normally the anti scrying runes along my hide would be enough, but the warlocks within that fortress were using fairly powerful magic, and you never knew what someone might catch past the haze.

I concentrated my power, before pushing my will into the land itself. I grit my teeth and heaved as my particular brand of nature magic pushed into the earth, mixing nicely with the fel magic for several miles.

I had done this around four times now, expending all I could of my power as a god into the earth around the length of the ramparts of Helfire Citadel.

I would be more worried about the druids noticing my works, but those who could stand to be in Outland and the remains of its spirits were focused on Coilfang Reservoir.

The naga have been draining the precious water from the marshland, and now they controlled the majority of the water on this shattered world. The spirits of the marshland cried out in agony, dying slowly alongside the mutated remains of their children.

The druids did not appreciate that, and had been leading the war efforts in the area. There were few others who had it in them to notice, or even care about the energy of the land at this point, and it could be months more before their voices were heard.

By that time it would be too late for anyone to do anything about it.

My energy spread outward a couple dozen yards, but I had focused most of it down the distance of the walls. I didn't enjoy wasting this much strength on something, but I had been making certain to retreat to Jarg'Gron outpost whenever I did.

If my precautions failed and I was caught off guard by a demon of sufficient power it could spell my end. So far it seems the forces of Azeroth, and the Illidari had done their jobs well enough to distract them from me.

I waited for around three weeks for my strength to return each time I charged the land with my power, but I was making progress.

Already my energy mixed with the fel magic along the ramparts for miles in each direction. I had been hitting outposts close to the walls for that very reason, making certain to focus on the gaps in the walls as much as possible.

Soon all that remained would be the area around the citadel itself, and then I would be free to do as I wished. I would wait for my strength to return, and then I would make my move against the Fel-Horde.

I would gift this toxic and wasted land life.


	74. Chapter 74

His claws wrapped around the bleeding form of an orc as he flew over the parapets of Hellfire citadel. Another Horde scout that strayed too close. He growled in pleasure as the wretched little thing finally woke up.

He most have been too rough when he descended upon the creature, by the time he had arisen back into the skies nothing but silence met his ears, and he felt only dead weight in his grip.

Now it struggled, and now it screamed. He let it drop from his grasp, listening to the orc's surprisingly high pitched scream as he plummeted to his doom. It struck an iron support and careened off the wall with a crack.

It wasnt often he got to kill orcs, and he made sure to enjoy it whenever he could.

"Take us back to the ramparts, beast, the Warchief will want to see me soon!" A rod struck the back of his head, and he forced himself not to react as the fel-orc, his "master" directed him onward.

Upon his back sat the herald himself, an armored Fel-orc of high standing. Well known among the Fel-Horde as one of the Warchief's prime enforcers.

It had been four years since he had made the mistake of letting his guard down, landing on a too perfect roost in the mountains in Shadowmoon valley. Like many of his kind he was an object of interest to the Dragonmaw clan.

Slavers by another name, they captured his kind and used them as nothing more than mounts, beasts of burden. It was demeaning, disrespectful, and insulting.

The orcs treated them as nothing more than cattle with wings, and slaves of war. Branding their wretched sigil on his hide and leaving him under the control of a being of cruelty and malice.

Vazruden had killed three of his previous mounts, and it was only his skill as a warrior and his effectiveness as an aerial combatant that gave him the priveledge of further slaves to abuse.

His time with the orc had been painful, but he had proven himself effective enough not to be slain. Still, the abuse needled away at his already breaking will.

Soon the orc would go too far, and he would respond before he could restrain himself.

And he, Nazan, son of Deathwing himself, would die just like those before him. It was almost maddening

In any other time, in any other place, he would be a prince among dragons. The son of a dragon aspect, one that had managed to survive this close to adulthood even after the energies twisted his form from within the egg.

One of the few dragons of the aspect of deaths brood left alive. Instead he was gifted pain and suffering throughout all of his eight years.

Twisted into he what he was now, his body charged with arcane energy enough to level a kingdom. All to live in nothing but suffering, one of the few drakes of his new flight still alive.

That knowledge was the only thing that kept him sane, that let him cling to his pride.

If he hadn't been made a slave he would have died to some slavering demon, or fallen victim to the gron.

This was just a test, a difficulty he could overcome with time and perseverance. If he survived long enough he could be one of the progenitors of a new flight, one standing above all others.

As feared as the Black Dragonflight, yet free of the madness of the Old gods. He could be the among the first to restore honor to his bloodline.

Yet here he was. He huffed as the rod struck his head again, before swinging around. As much as he hated being ridden upon, it was preferable to remaining locked in a cage, to be poked and prodded by whatever Orc that thought himself brave.

His head twitched as he caught the sound of wings flapping in the air. From the relative softness of the beats and the fact that he could barely hear it over the air rushing past it was likely something small.

A shadow flickered past the corner of his eye, and his head whipped around to the form of a black bird flying in his direction. Strange.

A quick glance at the ground revealed they were still several thousand feet in the air. Most birds didn't fly this high in Outland.

Come to think of it the only birds left on the landmass of Hellfire Penninsula, and most of Outland were the carrion birds.

A few other breeds had survived the breaking of Draenor, but most of them had died in the years following.

His eyes widened when he looked back on the bird, meeting its eyes as it crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat. It let out a barking caw as it overtook him, before flying over him and past his view.

He grunted as a boot planted itself onto his head and hear the whistle of steel cutting through the air. He looked over his shoulder in time to see his the blade of a knife scant centimeters from his eye.

The voice that met his ears distantly held an elvish accent, and contained no small amount of arrogance.

"Don't struggle now, little drake. It would be a shame to have to kill you."

Vazruden's headless corpse tumbled from the saddle seconds later. A pale human smiled down on him from his back, eyes glowing a harsh purple.

Nazan slowed as the knife slowly drew away. "You're gonna take me back to ramparts, and your gonna help me kill my way inside."

His voice caught in his throat. He couldn't fight them all! They had Harpoons, demons, warlocks and more!

As much as he wanted to express his revenge, returning would be the death of him. He made to refuse, to defy the human or whatever it was, before he felt a massive wave of magic wash over him.

Not a spell being cast but a display of strength and aggression as obvious as teeth being bared.

A very draconic growl met his ears. The sound clearly from a beast far larger and far stronger than himself.

**"Now."**


	75. Chapter 75

The drake was afraid of me. Good.

I had attacked Vazruden because he was one of the few members of the Dragonmaw clan that remained under the Fel-Hordes control. From what I understand a deathknight had attacked the dragonmaw fortress, and seized control of it some time ago.

I would be looking into burning that place down later, but for now I would settle for murdering the most obvious one of them.

The dragon slaver orcs had practice in bringing down dragons, and I had no plans of giving them the same opportunity for me.

That did not mean I wanted to give myself away so soon though. People would have questions and concerns about the dragon murdering his way through Outland soon enough, but I did not want those questions directed towards Hellfire Citadel.

Jarg was already leading his clanspeople into the Ramparts, and I did not want Marcus Moonbrook to be thought of in the same instant as Malius.

Which meant riding on this fools back for a little while.

**"Are their others like you in the citadel?"** The drake was silent for a moment.

"Four aside from myself. Their kept within the Bloodfurnace for now, the warlocks planned to wait to they were of breeding age." And that was the other reason I had attacked.

Even the fastest growing of dragons took at least eighty-five years to reach physical maturity. The netherwing flight was another matter entirely.

Deathwing had stored a number of his flights eggs on this world before it was torn apart, and the adaptability of the eggs meant they not only survived, but thrived.

Whatever mutations that much magic caused them, from the bio-luminescent glow of their hides, to the removal of the Old gods influence, there was one in particular that made them dangerous.

A member of this brood matured as quickly as mortals did.

As far as I could tell between sixteen and twenty years was all it took for a netherwhelp to grow fully into their form as a dragon. It had been just over twenty years since Draenor collapsed, and in that time this new flight had been able to begin breeding amongst themselves.

There were several Broodmothers on this world now, spawning hundreds of eggs each. Already the newly adult dragons were starting to battle amongst themselves to decide who would be the ultimate leader of their new flight.

If not for the Dragonmaw clan they may have actually been a contender for control of Outland by now. As it was they were either divided or captured.

However that didn't make them any less dangerous. Given another twenty years their would be hundreds of fully grown dragons competing for control of the relatively small territory that was Outland.

Unlike Azeroth, Outland was nothing more than seven provinces each around the size of the kingdom of Westfall. Yet soon this newly formed flight would have numbers of fully grown dragons approaching that of the others.

One of the primary reasons dragons weren't as numerous as they once were was the mortality rate for dragons between childhood and adulthood. Adult dragons, even in times as perilous as this one were unlikely to fall in combat.

Drakes and whelps, mere children however weren't so safe. Even black dragons, the most hated of our kind were unlikely to die as adults.

Nefarian, son of Deathwing and one of the leaders of the black dragonflight had practically declared war on all mortal races, and still fought the weakened Firelord to a standstill for control of Blackrock mountain.

In the end it was only luck and arrogance that spelled his eventual defeat at the hands of a group of heroes, but while few adult dragons were as strong as Nefarain was they often didn't need to be.

The Netherwing flight had to do a lot less waiting to reach that kind of power.

That was an advantage I would not be passing up. Dragons followed the strongest, and while most stuck to their particular breed the Netherwing flight had yet to establish a strong chain of command.

If an adult dragon of strength proved himself stronger than any of the others he would be undisputed leader of the flight. I'd say it was lucky I was a dragon in a unique posistion to take command but the being I was before had this in mind when I was first captured as a whelp.

This was something of a test run of that idea. The drakes in this fortress had no allies, and few sympathies. Even if they didn't join me, they wouldn't have any real way of hurting me.

The Horde and the Alliance had been watching netherdrakes kill their soldiers for months now, and even if they did approach them for aid they would almost certainly die for the effort.

Aside from the Azeroth forces their only options were the other rogue drakes, who might kill them, or my rivals, who I would soon be murdering regardless.

When we were a few dozen yards above the ramparts I directed us over the form of this places illustrious houndmaster. A demon of some strength.

I sheathed my sword, and my dagger, before I reached back into the saddle of my current mount, and grasped the handle of a polearm that had been secured to its side.

I had been neglecting certain aspects of my strength in my time on Azeroth, but now that I was in Outland I had little reason to ignore such a rare find.

I would need all the help I can get to fight my way through this place, and the best equipment I could aquire would be a good start.

A hellish blade looked back at me, grafted onto the a two foot long hilt. A strange polearm known as Hellreaver, burning with fel magic and ready to seek out pain and suffering.

Time to put it to the test.


	76. Chapter 76

"Scum! You'll never understand the true power of the Fel-" The fel-orcs head crunched nicely as Jarg, Chieftan of the Splinter-Fist, crushed it in his palm.

The months in service to Malius, his draconic god, had been kind. The campaign against the orcs had been bloody, costly, and exhilerating. His master had granted him strength, and the opportunity to use it again and again.

There was little else to think about but the blood he spilled, and the spoils he took. On this barren world he was a king among monsters, leading an army of Ogres to victory at every corner.

The only creature above him was the master himself, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

So when the time came to finally attack the fortress this "Fel-Horde" cowered within? He was eager to follow his lord into glory.

The blackened citadel hovering over Jarg, taunting him with its seeming unassailability, was as exciting as it was terrifying.

Unfortunately his task was not one to take so lightly as the assault itself.

The march to citadel had started in the way his god always seemed to prefer. Silent and unseen, just before an explosion of carnage and battle.

Admittedly it was growing on him.

They had approached the citadel from their outpost on one particularly dark day, when the streams of fel-fire against the sky faded temporarily into nothingness for hours at a time.

Under the cover of such shadows it was easy for them stalk their prey in nearly full force, eight-hundred Ogres moving in relative quiet, whatever magics their master had bestowed forcing their minds to focus on the hunt almost single mindedly.

Not a word would pass between the tribe as they hunted, only the occasional growl of excitement. Noise was acceptable only in battle, and in victory.

Once they were on the move with the intent to kill, the masters teachings came into focus once more. Speed, and as little noise as they could manage was the new way of the tribe.

The massive bulk of each ogre added only moderate difficulty to their efforts, and the endless waste of dust and decay muffled their movement as they approached.

They crossed the miles between them and the fortress in record time.

The god of strength guided them to a small path leading directly into the main road, just a couple hundred yards from their objective, before assuming the form of a crow and disappearing with only a light caw.

He would break the gate mechanism, and cut off the main forces from those outside.

There had been dozens of guards looking into the darkness intently, their glowing eyes peering through the shadow and only just missing them in the distance.

He could only imagine the terror they felt as his tribe emerged from the darkness, howling and chanting. It had been a bloodbath.

The orcs tried to fight, and managed better than most did, but they fell far too quickly for their calls to be answered. With the battle joined the maddening haze driving them to silence faded, and all pretense of stealth was dropped for nothing more than speed and savagery.

Nearly two hundred orcs fought and died as they made the approach to the gates of Hellfire Citadel, pouring from their barracks, and from the forward lines.

With mighty swings they cleaved their weapons, amalgamations of metal and bone, into any foolish enough to halt their advance, easily clearing the path even as the orcs streamed forth, beginning to sorround them.

A few dozen tribe-members fell to the orcish bloodlust that met their hunt, crying our as axes bit into their legs, and spears into their hearts, more than they had lost in the entire campaign, but they each made the enemy pay in full for their death.

Dozens more died when they finally reached the massive iron cage the orcs considered as a gate wall, before desperately covering their allies as they gripped the corrupted iron with enough force to dent it.

They fought through waves of arrow fire, as well as hail of head sized stones falling upon them from the ramparts, and only grinned through bloodied teeth as they fought on.

As one the Ogres heaved, roaring out in pain as the spiked grating dug into their palms, and as their boots dug into the earth.

Inscriptions glowed blood-red as they powered the ogres into feats of strength beyond even their own kind, and after nearly five minutes of struggle the metal began to move.

With a screech the gate was lifted into the air, and an army rapidly poured through. The orcs that met them were surprised and already unsteadied.

They died easily enough.

The courtyard itself was barren, a left open to allow the army to pass through the gates on either side of the castle.

One staircase led above, splitting off into several sections of the citadel proper.

One led below, leading in only one direction.

The gates fell with a boom, and those still on the other side quickly turned, swinging their weapons madly as death approached them, and the bulk of the fel-horde's outer forces began to fall back to their bastion.

"Chief Jarg, Who next?" It was Ror'ferron who spoke past broken and bloodied teeth, the result of a stray rock. He was met with a backhand and a growl.

"The master's been clear. If you can't speak proper, don't speak at all." The cowed ogre nodded.

Jarg motioned to a staircase leading into the fortress proper. "Take all but the honor guard into the citadel, and meet the master in the middle. We'll handle our end as planned."

Ror'ferron nodded, leading his followers with a roar up the stairs.

By the time they had disappeared into the bastion only fifty-three Ogres remained, hulking beasts clad in iron and bone, each nearly twice the size of their leader.

If all went well they would be enough. If not?

It was possible his soul would never reach his master.

Jarg took a single breath as fear touched him for the first time since he pledged his service. He glanced to the few Ogres still fighting outside the gate, collapsing as the Fel-Horde began to surround them, piercing them with dozens of spears.

Above them the fel-orcs desperately tried to use the pulleys to lift their defensive work up, and allow the army in.

The half melted and broken chain provided little aid.

It wouldn't be too much longer, perhaps an hour before they repaired or broke through the gate. By the time they did the battle would be decided.

With a grim nod he looked to his clansmen, and then into the staircase descending below them. He could barely make out the green glow at the bottom.

He growled. "What lies within is the masters prey, and the masters prey alone. We are not to disrupt the ritual below. " He eyed every guard, the greatest killers in the tribe. They would have to do.

They all nodded, fear in their eyes. "Come then, to glory."

He could not bring himself to yell out as he had so many times before.


	77. Chapter 77

I waited as my Ogres breached the main gate, raising alarm among the fel-orcs and scattering them as they tried to make their way down to combat the assualt.

My target stomped on cloven hooves to the side of the wall, his wings stretching outward as his gaze fell upon my servants. Chaotic energy occasional burst from the open maw on his chest.

Omor the unscarred. A Terrorguard once of the Burning legion, and one rumored to have gone undefeated in combat in the years since he joined the Fel-Horde.

It wasn't long ago I would have thought that a feat. In truth it was only natural a creature like that went undefeated against mortals, corrupted or otherwise.

This was not a game, an mmo designed to have beatable foes or player characters of such power they could fight regardless. An eleven foot tall creature with centuries of experience in battle and supernatural strength and speed would be an insurmountable foe to most.

The truth was demons like that were slain by soldiers only with heavy casualties, and by mages and paladins only with great caution and preparation. Even the legends among mortal races couldn't truly match a demon in martial combat. They fought smart, striking from the shadows when their foe was at the weakest, and with weapons and armor unmatched in quality and effectiveness.

This was not a battle a mortal would win.

However I am no mortal, and the same concepts that make him a insurmountable foe to warriors everywhere make him easy prey for me. I leapt from the back of the Nether-drake I had pressed into my service, gripping my new weapon tightly in hand.

I was a spectre, a wild god, and a dragon, I had been learning, growing into my strength as quickly as I could. I smiled as the wind whipped past my face, and readied myself.

Omor the unscarred would learn that too.

A quick push of my mana, and a focus on the demonic energies within me ignited my burning weapons with green flame and a light hiss.

The rest of my form followed shortly after, immolating itself in fel-fire. I crashed into the ramparts as a meteor of magical energy, swinging my Hellreaver down on the demon I had chosen to kill.

It twitched to the side, taking the blade to the shoulder instead of the head, and I barely had time to bring my arm up to catch a massive spiked purple fist. Not that it mattered.

I grunted as my arm broke under the strain, and the spike forming from the back of the creatures hand tore through my arm and into my cheek, throwing me back as it roared in pain and anger.

I stood in time to see It's hand grasp at the stump that was once his shoulder, the spaseming remains of one of his wings flailing just behind it.

**"MY ARM! YOU WRETCHED GNAT!**I laughed as my skin began to knit itself back together.

"That hurt, little demon? Don't worry, I'll take the pain away soon enough." I twirled my blade lightly as the flame surrounding me faded, letting me heal past the burns my entry gave me.

My ears twitched at the sound of plated boots approaching my posistion. Seems not everyone left to fight my servants yet.

Good.

I ducked under a shadowbolt, charging just as the demon began to chant incantations in my direction.

My blade came up to block the maw of a massive, demon corrupted hound as it tore into existance, cutting the beasts head off, but giving Omor and a number of other hounds the opportunity to attack.

A snapping jaw took three of my fingers, and a blast of shadow flame revealed my ribcage as I dodged past the dogs to the best of my abilites. I stumbled as canine teeth dug into my leg, before I finally closed the distance.

Omor dropped the building shadow in his hands, backing out of range to one of my swings and swinging his only remaining arm in my direction.

He rapidly backpedaled as my pole-arm grew closer and closer, scorching light cuts around his chest and arms.

I heard the beating hearts of the garrison approaching me from behind, and smiled.

A casual blast of heat behind me seared the hounds and killed a few approaching fel orcs in a wave of green flame, before I thrust forward with Hellreaver just as Omors back hit the parapets.

I impaled the unscarred where a normal beings lungs would be, twisting my current favorite weapon, and listened to his insides burn.

**"Aar-"**My hand dug into his throat before he could scream, and I ripped whatever constituted for vocal cords out of the demon before he could cast another spell at me.

He died as best as a demon really could, fading into the Twisting Nether where he would reform eventually. I might even see him in a few years.

I pulled Hellreaver from his body as Nazan finally decided to participate in my slaughter, landing with a boom atop a group of orcs on the wall, biting into ones head and crushing it like a grape as he did, before tossing the corpse into some that where charging at me.

I guess I had proved my ability well enough for him to trust in my chances then.

I lazily swung my blade behind me, neatly bisecting an orc as he "quietly" tried to approach, before a turned to a group of the red orcs. My eyes glowed purple as I gazed at them.

They proudly bore the standard of the Fel-Horde, wearing well crafted armor, steel if my nose was right. They looked to each other, and than to the corpse at my feet.

I felt my teeth lengthen as I grinned at them. I smell fear.

My arms rose, and my eyes glowed. Runes appeared along my flesh, glowing green with fel power as fire began to form all around me.

**"Burn."**


	78. Chapter 78

"Burn."

A firestorm erupted around me, consuming the upper ramparts at my word. Screams reached my ears a moment later.

The heat would kill even the demon corrupted orcs without too much trouble, and while it might singe my new ally it wouldn't kill him outright.

I probably could have killed them all with my new weapon, but it wouldn't be long before the few thousand orcs trapped outside found their way in. A sizable majority of the Fel-Horde was inside the fortress as well, and as effective as my forces were they wouldn't last long trapped between two armies like this.

I waited for the calls of pain and terror to end, finally cutting off the flow of energy some time after the screams ended. When my vision finally returned hundreds of corpses, orcs mostly with the occasional warg, surrounded me and a visibly shaken Nazan.

Charred and blackened, they barely even resembled orcs anymore. I looked to a the tower where I knew the outer entrance to the Citadel waited for me. I would take the furnace, and then begin to work my way down.

I poured energy into my palms, letting death magic flow around me and into the air. I spoke into the air as I started walking into my new home.

"Stop shaking." It was starting to annoy me.

"W-what?" I stopped myself from growling at the stutter.

"I said stop shaking. I can practically hear you trembling, and it offends me. You're a dragon, act like it."

He was silent for a moment as he followed me, before I heard him speak again, fear restrained but still clear in his voice. "What are you? No dragon would fight in such a vulnerable form, and none can heal like that."

I chuckled. "I'm alive, and I am a dragon, just one far worse than you are."

I glanced back at Nazan as he watched the burned bodies of my victims begin to rise up, following us. "Still, even with that you should show some decorum, some pride."

"The strong command, and the weak obey, what do you care about how I act?" The Netherwing flight have almost universally raised themselves from their times as whelps, and they had no traditions or codes to rely on.

Honestly it was disgusting to see something so closely associated to me act in such a childish manner. "I care because even if you are afraid of me, as you should be, you're still of a class above the mortals scurrying about."

I gestured to the gathering army below us, attempting to breach the main gate. "We feel the same emotions they do, but we are dragons. Empires of the beings below us have risen and fallen at our word."

I let my true voice begin to trickle into my speech. "Even at your weakest, even surrounded by enemies a thousand times stronger than you are, never show real weakness, never show real fear."

He didn't speak again, I had his attention now. "A dragon is granted power and strength far beyond that of the other races, but the moment you show that you are afraid, you give up the right to hold that power."

I pulled back on my true self once I felt my scales start to appear over my human form, watching as pink flesh began to return to its place. "It is and always will be our duty to prove ourselves worthy of being a dragon."

I looked back at him as we crossed the threshold, my undead pouring inside the citadel.

I saw a spark of understanding. Good.

That meant he could learn. I would shape this one into a real dragon given the time.

For now my mind was on other things.

* * *

I walked the halls of the upper portions of Hellfire Citadel, making my way up to the Blood furnace, thinking on the conquest ahead of me.

The magics I was using to see it through. It wouldn't be long now.

There was something about what I would soon be doing that spoke to me in a way I couldn't understand.

Four hundred orcs, flesh burned nearly to the bone, mindlessly tore their ways through the halls of Hellfire citadel.

A drake stalked behind me, ready to kill any who crossed our path.

It wasnt the immediate gratification raising the dead as ever loyal servants or pressing beings into my service usually gave me. That was there too, but it was something else.

I followed behind my orcs, letting Hellreaver burn into the stone floor as I walked after them.

It was a beauty I was beginning to recognize in alot of the things I had done in the past, and one I was focused on bringing about in the future.

It was the joy most spirits of nature felt as plants they nurtured grew, becoming a work of art within nature itself. Growing something from nothing was one of the greatest achievements nature spirits could make.

Of course my ideal was a little different from theirs. I didn't want to grow something from nothing, though I happily would if the opportunity presented itself.

I didn't like the idea of working with a blank canvas.

I wanted to grow something from the shattered remnants of something else. Taking the ruins of one thing, and reforging it into something not necessarily better than what it once was, but unique in its own way.

Peoples, weapons, religions, and even worlds.

I was shaping this land into something beautiful, something filled with life. This place was going to be a work of art when I was finished.

I was creating life, something capable of sustaining itself without my power.

Life forced to meet my own ends, life ultimately leading me to power beyond what I have at present, but life none the less.

I looked down to the torn apart body of a fel-orc as it was tossed to my feet. A clench of my fist and it rose up, readying to fight and die at my whim.

The undead would ultimately be just one of the steps I would take in the reforging of this place, just as much a part of my new order of things as air was to the living.

Of course I was never the type to leave things as simply as the scourge did. If I kept my more artistic train of thought on the matter I would consider the Scourge to be artists that paint in only one color.

They can be skilled, masters even, but everything they were, and everything they built upon was focused away from the reality of things. There was more to the craft than undeath.

Most importantly there was more to undeath than the Scourge focused on. Today I would see just how much more their was.

I already had an Idea of course, but this was an opportunity to see how far I could take it.

Nature magic flowed into my hands as I walked onward.


	79. Chapter 79

There were few guards to halt their approach, only a paltry few apprentice warlocks and enslaved demons to halt over fifty experienced Ogre warriors.

"You don't understand what you're doing!" They'd call out.

"If it breaks free it'll kill us all!" They'd scream, before the honor guards weapons fell upon them.

Jarg grimaced. He knew what could happen. They all did, but their gods command mattered more.

Only two ogres fell as they advanced into the dimly lit ritual chamber. Norg'fel and Craxxus, each dieing under to the might of several burning aybssal demo,yet each a testament to the power of the Splinter-fist clan.

The chamber itself was large open room overlooked by a massive set of iron bars above them. Most of the light came from the ongoing magic in the room.

A dozen warlocks dressed in fine enchanted robes, glowing with inscriptions and fel power, channeled into the frozen and dormant form of a monster out of legend.

Even hunched and on its knees it was massive, nearly fifty feet tall and covered in jagged battle scars. Along its back rows of spine like plates emerged from muted green scales.

It stood perfectly still, silent against the magic keeping it contained. It's presence spoke more than words ever could.

It radiated power so palpable it nearly drove Jarg to his knees. His blackened tatoos, gifts from his master, glowed red as they responded to the strain even being in the Pit-lords presence brought forth.

A glance to his comrades revealed they were experiencing similar difficulty.

This was the source of the Fel-Hordes power. Magtheridon the Pitlord. Once that creature ruled Outland with a iron fist, enslaving its inhabitants and readying to aid the burning legions invasion.

If his masters words were true it took the combined efforts of the most feared beings on this world to capture the demon general before them.

Seeing the creature now, it was difficult to believe something like that could even be killed, let alone contained.

Even so, with the creature imprisoned the Fel-Horde drew upon its blood as a means to increase their strength, mutating from the magic held within.

Most members of the fel-horde were only a few short steps away from becoming demons themselves, and if given time they soon would be.

In a way it was not unlike the power he and his clan had taken, changing them inside and out in return for strength. He understood their reasoning.

Unfortunately for them it was also why his master had sent him down here. Many things can happen during a seige, and some of the most powerful and dangerous warlocks in the land were in this very chamber.

They were formidable foes, ones that actively imprison a creature of strength comparable to his gods.

They could not be allowed to interfere with the conquest of Hellfire Citadel, and at the word of Malius they would not.

A captured Fel-orc captain had revealed that every three days the warlocks conducted the magics that drew the demons blood away from it, and for the entirety of the day the ritual was conducted they would be unable to interfere with the outside world.

It was the only time to attack without risking outright loss, but it was also the most volatile time. The ritual weakened the creatures magical bindings, and should it be interrupted in any manner the creature would almost certainly escape.

And a rogue pit lord was far more dangerous to the attack than the warlocks ever could be.

So when the ogres of the Splinter-fist clan emerged from the shadows they stowed their weapons, merely allowing their cheiftan to stalk forward to the lead warlock.

Even past the red flesh and near permanent scowl it was clear to see the orc was frightened. Clearly he knew better than anyone what kind of power the demon held.

He had heard their approach, and could only wonder at their purpose. "This creature is beyond you, ogres. If you kill any of us, no one on this world is safe."

The orc channeled even as he spoke, his voice strained and distant.

Jarg huffed. "Complete your ritual, orc. I don't plan to die today. We are simply here to make certain nothing stops you, and to present an offer from the new ruler of these lands."

His voice carried throughout the chamber, catching the ear of every orc present. "As we speak our god's forces descend upon Hellfire Citadel, and soon it will be ours. The offer is simple."

Jargs eyes glowed red as his marking lit up even more fiercely. **"Serve and be granted power, or die as nothing but a pawn."**

"When our god has finished his work he will ask if you will serve, and I would suggest you listen."

The Orcs looked to each other through the strain and effort of keeping the demon contained. "Of course you will be given time to consider after the work is complete. For now you are prisoners and honored guests in our new home."

The leader snarled, our of breath. "We will...consider your offer. Now leave us! Even this distraction has cost us hours of-" A wet thunk interuppted his words.

All eyes fell upon the form of an orc as he fell away from the ritual, an arrow embedded firmly in his eye. Jarg swung around, meeting the gaze of an elf garbed in fine leather.

His stark white hair and glowing red eyes marked him as demon corrupted.

"The legion doesnt approve of traitors, and its time this world fell back into the hands of a proper leader."

The elf smirked as he stowed his bow, blinking away a moment later.

Behind the stunned form of an Ogre warlord, one blazing green eye opened, and two mammoth wings spread for the first time in years.

Jarg didn't look behind him, only twitching at the sounds of the orcs screaming as they tried to keep control, and the maddening laughter of the Pit-lord as he began to rise up. Jarg's jaw clenched.

His grip tightened on his maul, and he looked to the warriors who had come with him. His voice was quiet, but steady enough that it carried even over the growing chaos.

"Stall it."


	80. Chapter 80

His instincts told him he was following a dragon.

His nose, his eyes, even his ears all pointed to the same truth. Yet there was something more to the creature that had demanded he join it in its conquest of Hellfire Citadel.

The magic it used was the first hint. A strange mixture of necromancy and fel-magic. One that easily allowed his unnamed leader to kill hundreds of orcs in moments.

The conflagaration of green flame that had emerged from the beings outspread arms had burned with intensity near enough to push past his natural resistance to heat, and instantly cleared the portion of the ramparts they stood upon.

The undead that rose up to join the battle on their side had awoken with barely any movement or preamble on the monsters part, simply standing and following them as he was lectured on the nature of being a dragon.

No incantations, no rituals, no expression of strain. It was an entirely unnecessary waste of power, one that implied a level of technique or magical strength that completely overshadowed the necromancers he had heard of.

Probably both.

And then there was the lecture itself. He spoke of holding oneself with dignity even in times were you should have none. Of proving strength even when your the weakest being in the room.

It was... compelling, especially when heard from what was so obviously an elder. He still remembered the rumble of the dragons growl.

It was a sound only an adult dragon could make, and as he was clearly not a nether dragon that meant he was at least a hundred years old, and likely far far older.

Perhaps most frightening was the complete ease with which he held himself, even when fighting a demon in a form as weak as a humans. Human form, and forms like it had appeal to dragons because of the soft and sensitive nature of their flesh.

He had been told that feeling the world in such flesh was addicting. Eating, sleeping, and most notably intimacy were all wonderful reasons to take up the flesh of a human, and one day he planned to do the same, if nothing else than to know why others enjoy it so.

But battle? Madness. To fight in the form of such a weak being was an invitation to death itself. Without the protection of scales, and ones natural affinity for combat it was a ridiculous risk to a dragons life.

Yet the monster watching as the undead began to tear their way inside the fortress had chosen to fight a creature as dangerous as a demon single-handedly. Not only that but taking several blows that by all rights should have been immediately fatal, and shrugging them off as if they were nothing.

He had watched, horrified as the dragons wounds knit themselves back together easily, healing in moments what should have been at the very least permanent and crippling injury.

It was seeing those wounds heal that convinced him to follow this elder. He knew not what terrible power had granted the elder the ability to heal himself in such a manner, but it alone was enough to make any dragon far more dangerous than it should be.

It guaranteed that failing to follow this dragons demands was a fatal mistake, one that would see him hunted down and killed by an enemy he could not fight, could barely flee, and could never kill.

So he followed as the dragon entered the citadel, watching as it contentedly directed the undead in battle, occasionally using his old riders blade to cut down any orcs that managed to break through the ever growing tide of undead.

He felt something nearing pity for the orcs as they desperately fought to survive the onslaught. Many had been caught off guard, either preparing for combat, or being attacked from behind as they were scrambling to make their way down.

It grew worse when they found a large set of stairs, making their way upwards as a number of orcs were descending. With a wave of his hand the elder sent fire up the twisting stairway, and they walked past the twisted and screaming forms of dozens of orcs as they began to succumb to their burns.

The monsters words brought him out of his daze as he flicked his blade across a burned and writhing orcs throat. "The Blood Furnace, its at the uppermost floor?"

He made to stutter out a response, before cutting himself off. Dignity even in the face of those stronger than you.

"Yes." He felt a flicker of pride at the steadiness of his tone.

"Good." With a gesture the undead following them turned, before shambling with surprising speed downward. leaving just the two of them to the horrors of the Blood Furnace.

The elder responded to his question even before he asked it. "I'm sending them to help my other servants below. I have little need for them up here. Besides, if I do I can always make more."

With that he started walking again, whistling a strange tone to himself as he made his way upward.

It was easy to tell when they reached the infamous recruitment wing of Hellfire Citadel, the darkened hallways lit only by shadow flame, the ever-growing scent of blood, and the torture racks made it clear they had found the right place.

Normally he viewed the place as something to fear, a place of torture and fel-blooded corruption. Too many times he had seen orcs loyal to the "true" horde dragged inside as spitting and fighting prisoners, only to be broken into crazed servants.

He knew what became of those who stayed inside too long, and he had long feared the day he would be brought inside to join his fellow drakes in servitude. It hadn't been long since they were captured, but he knew it was possible they had already been tortured into submission.

And yet, somehow, he was more afraid of the elder he was following inside.


	81. Chapter 81

I had to stop myself from whistling any more than I already had as we moved further inside the citadel.

With a wave of my hand a group of fel-orcs in heavy armor fell screaming to the ground, rotting inside their steel as I moved past them.

I was expending a fair bit of power to get this over with quickly. I wanted this place fully under my control within the hour, and unfortunately I had far too few servants available to make that possible without a lot of personal intervention on my part

After I took care of the warlocks here and freed the drakes I would move into the center of the fortress, where most of the fighting was taking place.

The orcs would undoubtedly hold out far too well in the mean time, especially with the legendary Kargath Bladefist at their command. His corruption may have ruined a fair bit of his tactical aptitude if the way the war was going was any hint, but it had probably enhanced his ability in combat.

Once the citadel was secure I could arrange a deal with the warlocks as they grew more desperate from containing the demon general below, and put together a ritual to drain its power.

Once this place was mine I would have some time to consolidate and make up for the lack of military power I have on this cluster of rocks they call a world.

The Ogres had proven themselves useful, perhaps even more so than I would have guessed, but they werent enough for all of Outland, and they wouldn't be enough for the future either.

Of course that wasn't an issue, I could steal plenty of military strength for myself quickly enough, and that would handle my immediate needs.

For now it was my time to arrange my stopgap before I really got things going.

I followed the screaming, walking along the bloodied halls. Nazan followed me inside. I would force him to participate more but I was in too much of a hurry to rely on anything but myself.

I pulled a knife from my belt as my pace quickened, cutting my wrist as I moved forward.

The Bloodfurnace was a place where people were converted using fel-magic, and it was also the point where warlocks received the secondary portion of the ritual happening at the base of the tower.

My opposition would mostly be a loose combination of warlocks and demons that had been enslaved to guard them. I turned to Nazan once the halls began to change, knowing I was close.

"Wait here until I've finished with the prisoners."

My blood trailed along the floor after me as I forced my wound not to regenerate. I brandished Hellreaver, stepping into an open chamber filled with the sound of low moaning and rushing liquid I was certain was not water.

Above me dozens of pipes filled with diluted fel-blood flowed into several large cells filled with hundreds of terrified prisoners, slowly corrupting them and twisting their bodies. I smelled the Nether-drakes off in a cell to my left, cut off from the pipes but in clear view of those less fortunate than them.

Most of the cells were filled with captured orcs of the Horde, but a few were filled with a mixture of other humanoid races. The worst of it flowed into them, changing them from thinking beings to mindless and corrupted creatures.

I looked to the snarling form of what might have once been a human, undulating blood and eating its own entrails in ravenous, mindless hunger. Hundreds of other creatures alike only in the sheer monstrosity of their forms writhed alongside it.

If they were alive they would probably thank me for what I was planning to do, but as it was they likely didn't even have souls to release from their twisted carcasses. A single demon stood at the end of the room, cutting into the silently gurgling body of what was once an alliance paladin.

Golden plate armor gleamed underneath the rapidly growing pool of blood as a Mo-arg conducted whatever act of corruption it was committing. This must be the maker.

Most demons of its breed were blacksmiths and engineers, working together to create the many surprising technological wonders of the Burning legion. This one had apparently taken a liking to using its talents on the flesh of those it found.

I stopped breathing once I noticed him, quietly stepping towards the demon. Once I was in the center of the chamber I let my blood flow, coursing towards my target and quickly forming a circle of intricate symbols around him.

I whistled once, grinning as the demon whipped around with a snarl. It was an ugly thing, fat, covered in glowing surgical scars. Its arms had been replaced with pincers and a canon filled with viscous liquid showing through tubing at its side.

It froze as it attempted to move forward, before looking down at the harshly glowing lines below it. **"You wretch. You think something like this can hold me?"**

I rolled my shoulders, before sending out a wave of fire into one of the cells at my side. "Yes."

**"It would take a dozen of you pathetic mortals to overpower my will! I-"**He gagged as I forced my will down upon his own, smothering it in an instant.

He stepped away from the circle, twitching as I forced him to walk towards me. "Release the dragons, and then bind yourself in their chains."

**"Yes, my lord."** He quickly moved to the drakes, and I turned to the prisoners in the cell next to the one I had just burned.

Most of them backed away when I looked their way, but one kept to the front, his hands around the bars.

"Make it quick." He said.

I nodded, before sending a wave of fire into their cell. I made sure it was hot enough to kill them in an instant.

I stalked around the room, clearing cell after cell of prisoners. Some begged, some cried, some accepted it as a mercy.

I would have no witnesses here. Two drakes cautiously approached me as I finished off the last of the prisoners.

Scars and open wounds covered their bodies, evidence of torture and examination, but from what I could feel their was no corruption.

Their torturers wanted to keep them viable for breeding. **"W-who are you?"**

I let my eyes show through the disguise I wore.**"My name is Malius, I've come to take this place as my own. To kill every fel-orc who doesnt submit to my will."**

The female tilted her head at me.**"Why?"**

**"Because they offend me, and because I can."**

She was silent for a moment.**"What do you want with us?"**

**"I want your dragonflight freed, and I want it for myself. I want to show you that we are the masters-"**I pointed to the banner hanging from the wall.

**"And that they are the slaves."**


	82. Chapter 82

Three drakes followed me as I walked onward, closely watching me as I cleared my way through.

Already a couple dozen burned and mangled corpses trailed behind me. I rose them and sent them down like the rest.

The only path that led to my destination was through a different kind of prison than the one I had just purged.

The cells were individual, the inhabitants Fel-orcs. These were those who lost their conviction in the Fel-Hordes name. They were to be tortured and reeducated until they were the same kind of fanatics that stalked theses halls.

I incinerated them as I passed, taking their pleas for mercy in stride. It was less likely they would recognize me by sight, but if the horde captured them it was unlikely they wouldn't speak of the things they saw on the day the citadel fell.

I casually sliced a fell orc in half as he charged at me, draining the life from his allies before they could reach my position. I had come across surprisingly few warlocks. Almost none actually.

I stopped at the thought, before taking a breath and focusing on the usual background noise of my senses.

Ogres fighting orcs below, killing and dying in equal measure, the booming calls of what I assumed to be Kargath as he rallied his warriors.

The smell of fel magic wafting off a kind of demon I hadn't met before, likely the one known as Broggok. Behind it the scent of nervousness and fear, fel pouring from the terrified forms of dozens of orcish warlocks.

I stiffened.

They were supposed to be overseeing the later half of the ritual below, the distribution of the blood safely throughout the pipes.

The Fel-steel of Hellreaver groaned as my grip tightened. My scales began to show over my current form.

"Finish off the orcs, I have to take care of something."

Something was wrong.

**"Bu-" **I snarled at the dragons behind me.

**"NOW!"**

They flinched away as I burst into movement, charging up the halls as fast as I could push this body and more. The world seemed to blur around the edges as I took to a speed I normally reserved for flight.

My teeth legthened, and my claws began to form around my fingers. I turned a corner, catching sight of a crowd of orcs making their way forward.

"Human! Kill the intr-" I smashed his skull into the wall beside us, and it burst like a ripe fruit as I swung my blade around me and into his allies, bisecting them.

I didn't bother looking back as the corpses fell, only focusing on the scent ahead of me.

The stone beneath my feet began to crack, the room growing smaller as I ran. Lightning gathered in my palm, my own nature fueling the magic as well as any other nature spirit could, I charged it further with arcane and fel.

I burst through a set of cast iron doors, catching sight of a flying orb of flesh, tendrils hanging down from it and a set of glowing purple eyes looking back at me.

It hovered behind a set of bars made of bone, overlooking a room filled with yet more prisoners.

**"Ah, an intruder. Come to me..." **I slowed at the touch of something within my mind. It was oddly soothing...

**"Arent you tired, young dragon? Come now, sleep..."**

I paused at its words, halting my advance. I hadn't thought about it now, but I _was_ tired. I looked into the warm glow of the creatures eyes.

**Sleep, and all your worries will fade away." **How long had it been since I slept? Weeks? Months? I had been struggling since my arrival for power. Didn't I have enough?

I shook my head. No, no this was wrong. This **wasn't** me. I don't doubt. I don't tire. I was more than that, I-

I felt the magic over my mind loosen as the tower shook, stonework falling all around as a roar sounded out from below.

I growled as I shook away the intrusion, before throwing my hand out in the demons direction.

**"I don't have time for you! Get out of my way!" **The channeled energies burst through my arm in a moment, tearing the limb apart as I sacrificed safety for speed and power.

Reddened lightening struck the disgusting thing in the eyes, eviscerating both it and the bars blocking my way forward. I charged forth, ignoring the orcs as they tried to run past me, trampling some underfoot as I made my way into the ritual chamber.

Chaos reigned within the room as the orcs channeled their magics, standing over grating that I knew to be directly over the former lord of Outland.

A fel-orc, noticably younger than the rest, screamed, falling upon his knees as he desperately tried to keep a hold of his part of the ritual. Dozens of orcs around the room desperately tried the same.

They were failing. An orb of sorcerous power thrummed above them, rapidly changing colors as the orcs lost control. It burst before I could even fully enter the chamber.

The fallout from the magic exploded outward, throwing the casters back with burning demonic energy. Some died under the heat, some screamed out from the burns.

The deep, thundering laughter that boomed out from below grew only louder as the magic failed. I flinched as two hands desperately grasped at my leg.

The young orc looked at me in abject terror, tears streaming from his face.

"S-save us. Save us, I beg you!" He wept, clinging to anyone and anything that could provide even the barest hint of comfort from what he knew was coming.

He probably didn't even realize I was the only thing that could hope to fight it.

I stepped forward, shaking him off without a word and stepping down the ramp onto the grating below, looking down at the form of Magtheridon as he batted away the last remaining ogres in a chamber filled with corpses.

I looked up, and around. More than enough space. Nothing stopping me then.

For a moment I hesitated, before letting go of my mortal form, I felt my senses expand, my strength grow a hundred fold outside of the bonds of a human body.

The metal bars, interweaved and several feet thick, tore as easily as paper. My roar answered the demons laughter, shaking the foundations of the citadel in much the same manner.

**"Magtheridon!"**


	83. Chapter 83

He had failed, watched as his brethren died to the demon lord of Outland. Jarg clutched at the ruined remains of his weapon, shattered on the hide of the Magtheridon. The creature laughed as he brought the ogre up to his maw, squeezing the life out of the ogre as he contemplated eating the creature uselessly stabbing at his hand.

How long had the greatest warriors of the Splinter-Fist truly managed to stall it? One minute? Two? Either way It was pathetic, and a failure already on top of allowing the demon to escape in the first place. He may have found an opponent worthy to die against, but he had fought it as well as a human child would a warlord of his own caliber.

He groaned as he ribs cracked, and as his own blood filled his mouth. Death had come, and he would not be able to face Malius with his head held high. Still, the demon laughed at his weakness, at his failure. He waited until the demons massive mouth stretched upon, before he spat into the demons face.

A growl met his ears, and he felt his arms break, followed by his ribs shattering into his lungs. He looked into the air above as the life began to leave him, catching sight of his master tearing through the cage above. It seems he hadn't failed after all.

**"Magtheridon!" **His master roared, leaping down the open space of the demons prison in the blink of an eye, forcing the demons grip around him to break, and sending them all into the ground.

* * *

The Pitlord managed to look up at me just in time for me to hook a claw into his eye. Its own claws locked around my throat in the same instant. He roared, slamming me into the earth with enough force to crack the stone. With a heave I kicked the Pitlord away from me.

A stream of lightly glowing green blood fell down his face, and he growled as I brought myself up from the ground. **"A little winged maggot comes to play. I'll admit this ****_is_**** a surprise."**

I growled back at the demon, responding in kind and taking a moment to asses my foe.

**"Maggot? Come now, a slave to the orcs wants to speak up to me? The lord of this land?" **I hummed as his lips drew back into a snarl. Touched a nerve had I? Good. **"If you lay down and die like a good little slave, I'll try to make your departure into the nether quick. "** I lie to the creature, for my own amusement if nothing else.

A blast of fel-fire met my skull a moment later, instantly searing away most of its flesh. I stalked around the chamber, tuting as best I could manage without lips, my flesh already beginning creep back into place. **"Is that anyway to treat your host? It may be a recent change, but this is my fortress."**

He had been a prisoner for years, stripped of arms and armor, but it didn't look like it affected him much physically, and it certainly hadn't affected him magically. I ducked under a swipe from a meaty claw, before I rose up, biting into the Pit-lords arm. Another fist crashed into my head, and I was forced to regrow my teeth as they cracked and shattered instead of tearing away its flesh.

I looked to the furrows my claws had left unto its flesh. It had taken all my strength just to carve them out and it hadn't even drawn blood.

The demon held back a moment, rumbling out another string of insults.**"Really now? A pretender to real strength managed to take any kind of power here? Your kind never learn."**

I opened my skeletal jaw, unleashing a wave of lightning purely out of my divinity. It was a draw on my strength as a god, but a necessary one. Too much of my strength came from the same place as this demons, too much of my power was its own.

The brute's hand rose up to block the strike, its muted hide hissing at the strain of holding it back. It laughed even as my claws drew lines of blood from my own flesh. It did not realize the lengths I would go to see it slain, and it did not realize fully just what kind of dragon I was.

The blood formed into sigils and magical etchings along the floor, pouring out from my flesh and growing along the length of the prison. I didn't bother to hide my true intent like I had in Deathholme, drawing enough blood to kill three dragons of my own size. I forced the wound not to stitch itself shut, even as I felt myself drain as my magic struggled to see me recover.

The laughter quieted as the demons eyes roamed over the magical symbols forming around the room. It didn't take long for recognition to dawn. The medium was blood magic, but this ritual was formed from fel magic, demonology to be precise. The demon roared, no longer finding any humor in its situation.

It was something of a ritual block, made to prevent its passage into the nether and instead capture its massive bulk of energy for myself. I imagined that was what it had managed to parse from knowledge alone. If it was smarter than I thought it was it probably would also realize that I had customized it to tear that same energy into a couple hundred different directions.

I had designed this matrix specifically to bring demons to a permanent end, destroying their conscious mind but keeping the energy intact. It was Antheols own forays into the imprisonment of demons that gave me the breakthrough I needed. Now all that remained was to keep the creature within the array. More importantly I had to avoid letting this fight reach the outside world.

I had a stronger chance in a more open environment, relying on my agility and magic over a battle of brawn, but it would certainly draw the eyes of several factions I wasn't eager to have take notice of me.

I tensed as the creature snarled out at me. **"You think to imprison me as well!? I'll tear the limbs from your maggot corpse!"**

I jumped into the demons charge as he attempted to ram into me, drawing my claws along its face and neck. It's massive tusks ground into the scales on my chest a moment later, piercing through my ribs and into my lungs. It doesn't respond as I pull my claws away, depressing them into its eyes, the only soft spot I can find on its body.

I gritted my teeth as Magtheridon grasped my by the shoulder, digging his fingers deep into my flesh. This was going no-where fast. His flesh felt like it was made of some kind of impervious iron, he cared not for pain, and he was stronger than me physically. I wheezed as felfire ignited in my lungs, burning throughout my body, and finally stopping my heart from beating.

**"I will not be imprisoned, I will not be contained!" **The demon screamed, slamming me into the wall. My eyes widened as I felt his magic waft out all along us, and as the demon broke my spine.

I managed to yell out **"No!"** As green flame began to burn along the room and inside my own body, burning away my flesh just as much as my blood.

I felt as a considerable amount of my power, meticulously contained through rituals and sacrifice, drain away into the air around us, destroying any chance of me containing him once again. Any more and I would destroy myself in the effort.

I pushed him away once again, standing now as a blackened skeleton barely holding up my own skin. The demon huffed at the sight of me still moving, still fighting.

**"You live? I've never known a dragon to touch so deeply into a magic the legion created. " **He paused as I collapsed, halting my regeneration and instead using necromancy to hold up my bones. I needed as much nature energy as I could manage now. He would _suffer _for the waste he had

**"You want power? You want this world for your own? Why didn't you approach my masters? We could have given it all to you and more if you only aided us in the taking of your world." **He pulled the ruins of his eyes out of his skull, waiting as felfire ignited in their sockets. **"The legion rewards strength well, and with the right tutelage you could be unassailable, undeniable. You cou-" **Twisted and blackened roots tore themselves from the stone below us. tightening around the demon even as he struggled.

My voice whistled through my now unmoving jaws. **"They certainly could have, but I serve no one, definitely not the mindless destruction and endless hypocrisy of your master." **I stretched out my tattered wings, flinging more blood around the room.**"The Demon-Titan doubts himself with every step, whimpering that he does the right thing, that his crusade is a purge for the good of all creation."**

I spoke on as the demon looked around, feeling the magic in the air.**"He craves the throne of it all, but hides behind already broken morals and teachings. He lusts after Azeroth, telling himself that he would destroy it not for the knowledge it would reject him, but for the taint that already consumes her. He burns all life he finds, thinking the Void-lords powerless without it." **I shook my head. **"Even if he one day succeeds, he will find himself alone, haunted with the knowledge that the void can never truly fade."**

My carvings lit up along my bones, and along what flesh remained of my body, not as strong as they could be without the entirety of my body, but close enough.**"I at least know what I'm doing, I know that it's selfish and greedy. I don't tell myself it's the moral thing to do. There is no real truth, no real morality to cling to. The only ideal thats ever going to matter to someone is their own."**

I felt my divinity begin to drain rapidly away from me. My power as a nature spirit burn at the strain of keeping a demon in place. It's very presence nearly killed even the corrupted roots, and its strength pulled against them as the time went on. This was supposed to be different. I was supposed to have time to ready its body, its power for when my casters where with me.

The things I could have done with so much power. This would set me back on every account, and now I had to use everything all at once. No distribution, no containment for further experimentation. All of this demons power forced into only a single ritual. Perhaps if I was weaker that would have been a good thing.

I needed power outside of my own to utilize further rituals of power, and the more strength I had the harder it would be to find it.

I needed time to gather the resources, the casters, the power to truly move further. I was already stronger than this Pitlord magically, and I needed so much more than just that for what I had planned. I pulled it's head to the side, grasping at one of its tusks. I would have to make due. This demon _would _die, regardless of its struggle.

My skeletal jaw latched around its throat, and my runes burned as they started to drain away at the Pit-lords magic. I forced my jaw to close harder than it ever could alive, breaking the jaw itself against the creature skin. I reinforced my teeth a dozen times over to penetrate just a little further.

We struggled against each other for what felt like an eternity as my teeth sank deeper, inch by inch. Eventually something had to give, and it would **not **be me.

The demon screamed once I finally broke through, and the container keeping all that power in one being burst. Demonic blood by the gallon and fel-energy poured onto my bones as I finally allowed myself to begin to heal. I directed every ounce of that power onto one set of runes that covered my entire structure, as much a part of me as the veins or nerves at this point.

Even as my other inscriptions faded away, they glowed brighter and brighter as my flesh took its place over them.


	84. Chapter 84

It took ten minutes to catch up to the one called "Malius" and accomplish the task he had put them up to. With the help of the newly freed breeders it was a simple but annoying task to hunt down every jailer inside. On one claw they were terrefied and curious about the dragon who had decided to lay siege to Hellfire Citadel with a clan of ogres under his control. On the other they were equally terrified of the Pitlord that had been imprisoned within this place.

Most concerning had been the sounds of the battle going on below. The entire fortress shook with the sheer power of the two creatures battling in its depths. When the last orc on the prison level had been slain they made immediately for the sounds of battle. They had queitly argued amongst themselves about whether or not to flee. Should the Pitlord win, they would all be in danger. On the other claw, should Malius win, he would hunt them down for the disrespect their retreat would imply.

In the end it had been he, Nazan, who had made the decision. The others had at first elected to flee, to take their chances, only halting when he explained the surety of the dragons victory, and the merit of his cause. He had felt the depth of power inside the ancient dragon, and he had made his plans for this world clear.

He would take it for himself, and establish a flight under his control. If they joined him it was clear their new patron would see to it every dragon on the ruins of Draenor would be freed of their chains, and united under one set of wings. Having lived under the whip it was a world he would be willing to die to see.

The others had followed him after that, skirting down the halls and towards the already quieting sounds of battle. They passed the corpses of dozens of orcs, and more notably the demon responsible for making slaves more aggresive, and less likely to cling to their past lives. A handfull of wounded and exhausted orcs sat in various stages of shock over a grated floor, and just below waited the dragon they had resolved to serve.

They would remember the scene they came upon for the rest of their days.

A pitlord, one of the mightiest demons to ever exist, lay dead on the ground. A pool of lightly glowing green blood forming around it. Over the massive corpse a dragon stood, but one unlike any they had ever heard of. They watched as albino scales pulled themselves over its titanic muscles. The creature stretched as the last of its wounds healed, and from their posistions above they could clearly hear the steady beat of it's heart.

The elder seemed absolutely unphased, and it acted as though it had woken from a deep sleep over finishing a battle with a foe easily capable of killing their kind. No scars showed themselves against its hide, no signs of battle or age to be seen on any of its flesh. Most importantly it was large, even for one of their kind.

So much so he barely fit inside the chamber, having to keep his wings to his side just to move properly.

Nazan had seen adult dragons before, and this one was at least twice the size of any of them. That alone marked him as old, and as powerful. In fact he was certain the only dragons alive that could boast greater size and power where the aspects themselves. He remembered seeing his father once, a shadow behind the membrane of his egg. He remembered feeling his sheer size and presence.

This one was smaller than what he remembered to be certain, but from a dragon not gifted the power of the Titans themselves? A traditional elder, perhaps a mate to one of the aspects, would be around half of their size even having lived nearly as long. He was close enough that he must have been old even when the world was young.

In an instant all of Nazan's fears, and doubts drained away. He looked to the others, watching as their eyes watched their new leader with rapt attention, and nodded. Yes, _yes _this was what they needed. The only Dragonflights that existed in any number to this day where those with aspects. Perhaps this dragon wasn't among their number, but he was the closest any of their kind could find to one.

There was no doubt in his mind that this world would soon belong to the not-aspect.

* * *

I kept myself from flinching as my wings brushed against the side of the chamber I stood in. There was no need to accidentally destroy the fortress I had worked so hard to claim. It had been a battle to keep the demons power from mutating me any further than it already had.

When I had poured the demons magic into the set of rune's I knew actively promoted growth I had expected it's affects to be visible, that they would likely put me at a level of size only the older dragons tended to exist within. What I did not expect was the wave of mutations to strike at me as they did their work. I had very nearly converted all my existing magic into the fel, and I didn't doubt It wouldn't have been long thereafter that I became a demon.

I had to hyperfocus my already overclocked regeneration, and simultaneously keep the rest of my magic from converting into a more volatile form. It was manageable, but only just. I managed to forgo the red skin, spikes, and all consuming rage that threatened to overcome my already split willpower.

The only change I kept I hadn't noticed until it had already took it's course. I had grown, alot more than I had been anticipating I would. Enough so that I was now that much more of an oddity among dragon-kind. Not that I'm complaining, this almost made up for the loss of containment. I was in an entirely different physical ballpark now.

I took a moment to enjoy the change, before returning to my human form. My new house could unfortunately no longer those particularly spiky red rodents, and I've lost my patience. I made to start walking towards the nearest sounds of battle, before I stopped, remembering a few things.

I looked up, immediately noticing my drakes looking at me from above. Honestly I was surprised they hadn't ran yet. I hadn't really instilled any loyalty in them yet, and mostly they were following out of instinct and fear.

Perhaps they had some potential then. I yelled up to them, enjoying the flinches that met my words. "Get to work on clearing the other levels, every orc that isnt in a cage or already on their proverbial knees dies."

Roots began to pull themselves out of the ground around me, snaking thier way to the corpses of the ogres and the orcs littering the floor. "No escapees, no witnesses." It was time to see if my experiments had any merit.

I didnt watch as they left, keeping my eyes on the roots tearing into the flesh of those who had fallen, wrapping around the bones only when they had been picked clean. The mortal blood on the ground followed suit shortly after, covering the vines and roots before burning into each tendril as they formed into dozens, and then hundreds of separate and individual ritualistic symbols.

It was another iteration of my work with the Gnolls, but made for a single purpose. They were improvised traps, and batteries. A play on the very matrix the elves used to power their wards. Should a demon of low to moderate strength die in their proximity they'd be imprisoned within the walking corpse until it returned to me.

The corpses that rose up from the ground did so mechanically, and in unison, but I knew that wouldn't last for long. I had purposely used necromancy even while I kept from using the ogres and orcs souls. The animated bodies would move based on the animation inscriptions so that I wouldnt have to puppet them personally, and the impression where the soul once was would leave something of an incubation chamber for a nascent spirit of nature.

Once enough energy began to power the automatons and enough time had passed the spirit birthed of my power would take control of the the body in a fast and tracked version of what happens to treants and other such creatures when they arent produced by members of their species as a seed.

They resembled their living counterparts in shape and size only, existing as nothing more than masses of interweaved, corrupted plantmatter and bone. Their nature alone denied almost all beings a means of turning them against me, and if the spirits actually managed to form as I hoped, they would work on the same principles I do.

In which case they would be capable of spreading life as I did. They would be abominations to others of their kind, but soon enough that wouldnt matter. I had them follow me ad I started to walk for the staircase I knew led outside. The only problem was just how little energy i had to spare for making them.

I had been forced to use my divinity to end the demons life, and I had used months worth of power in the minutes it took me to pierce his flesh fully. I had heard the hide of a pitlord was particularly thick, difficult to penetrate, and even more difficult to fully wound, but that was almost enough to make me flee outright. If it wasnt clear to me that I was making progress I never would have stayed.

Still, it had taken far too long to kill Magtheridon, and while I was pleased at the knowledge I had done so, it was growing more and more annoying to rely on the lack of knowledge others had against me to succeed against them. It didn't do as much to draw my ire as it could have, however. I was making progress, and even with these setbacks that was enough to put a smile on my face.

When I eventually emerged from Magtheridons lair it was to chaos. Fel-orcs in their hundreds fought against ogres and their own undead kin, desperately holding the citadel with a mixture of blind rage and sheer spite. I watched as an Ogre was tackled off the parapets by an orc, as a trio of burned skeletons tore apart an armored warrior with teeth alone, and as ferocious packs of garn wolves swarmed over one of my captains.

Dozens of scenes just like them played out around and above me, filling the air for miles with the sound of steel and screams. My expirements surged forward, at least seventy abominations of bone and root charging into the fray.

The help of the enchanted and animated plant life over the skeletons made it so they tore through the orcs ahead of them like a knife through butter, easily overpowering their prey in feats of strength terrifying to behold.

Roots burst from the earth in time to engulf a platoon of orcs charging through the main gate, in around half a minute of muffled screams turning them into yet more of my slaves. I directed them outside into the confused army trying to break in, before making my way up a staircase and into the citadel proper.

I send out a pulse of necrotic energy as I did, forcing hundreds more of the corpses littering the earth around the citadel to rise up and take arms.

The fighting only seemed to increase in intensity inside, where hordes of the undead fought with larger bulks of my ogres against the best of the felhorde.

Blood pooled the halls as I started to clean up the stragglers, ending unfavorable battles and directing their Victor's further into the center of my tower.

When I finally reached my destination I stepped past the roaring form of one of my lieutenants as he held up the head of the orc I knew to have been in charge of this place, taking a seat on his throne.

"Malius!" My minion roared, soon joined by the others in the room. "Malius!"

I grinned, resting a chin on my fist as the battle started to turn in my favor.

"For Malius!" They screamed.


	85. Chapter 85

Within three hours the last of the fighting had died down, and an army of undead orcs streamed into my fortress, hiding themselves within and behind the walls. I had overlooked the battle, taking the time to direct the undead against the remnants of the fel-horde. Nazan and his two fellows hunted down and killed any escapees or deserters by air, no doubt relishing in the chance at revenge on those who had enslaved them.

Now I saw on the throne of Warchief Kargath Bladefist, looking down on a number of kneeling and bloodied orcs. The strongest of the Splinter-fist tribe surrounded us, chieftain Ror'ferron at their head. He had been informed of Jarg's death not too long ago, and as the most senior of their tribe he assumed the position with no small amount of pride. I called out to him first, beckoning him forward. He didn't hesitate to approach, or to kneel.

"How many of your warriors remain alive and ready to fight?" Even with all the strength I had given them, eight hundred was an incredibly small number of warriors to match the Fel-horde in their own fortification, and the orcs didn't stay surprised for long. He paused for a moment, before speaking.

"The losses were many...Two-hundred of us left." I smiled as he wrestled with the strain of speaking like a proper individual. They all obeyed my commands without question, but some things came more easily than others. Still, that was about what I had expected, especially considering the travesty that was Magtheridons near escape it wasn't terrible. It did leave me with less options for my more public persona. I was still charged with defending caravans and aiding in the passage into Illidan's territory.

I nodded at his words, before I gave him his next orders. "Your next task is fairly straight forward, but I want it done as quickly as possible. Travel to the pools of Aggonar with barrels, vats, and any thing else that can carry liquid, bring me as much of the corrupted water within the pools as you can, and more importantly bring me the remains of the Pitlord known as Aggonar." I didn't know how he died, but I wasn't going to let that much material go to waste now that I had a place to hide it properly.

The ogre rose up immediately, gesturing for his ogres to follow him as he began to search for the neccasary supplies to see my task finished. I looked to the rest of the orcs on the ground with a smirk. No doubt they were wondering what it was I wanted with them. The entirety of the warlocks who survived the escape, and a number of other key individuals waited for me to pass judgement on them.

"As for the rest of you, you are all no doubt well aware of the fact that you are the only living fel-orcs in this tower. I have kept each of you alive because each of you has a purpose to me that I would hate to see wasted. I could easily turn you into mindless servants, perhaps even more intelligent undead, but something is always lost in the process. So I'm going to give you a choice." I waited for them to understand the offer I was making fully.

"If you serve me I'll see to it you're provided for, and treated well. If you don't, I'll kill you now and take my chances at tearing your soul apart for its can take as long as you need to decide." I leaned back, drumming my fingers on my new armrest as they looked to each other. There was something about this throne I quite liked. The alliance and most human kingdoms had a ornate and gilded chair, one that was opolent and beautiful, but honestly didn't look very comfortable.

On the other hand, it seemed the orcs had the right idea with their own seat of power. Sure it wasn't fancy, but the gigantic bones and the sheer volume of some kind of animal fur covering the thing made it both intimidating and comfortable. The voice of an orc cut off my musings.

"I will serve." his voice was deep, but muddled and slurred with fear and exhaustion. It was the young orc from earlier, the one who had begged me to save him from imminent death via Magtheridon. I smiled at him, before clapping once at his eagerness. He had to have been fifteen at the most.

"Fantastic, you can take any room that doesn't already belong to someone else, and if you try to escape by any means I'll flay your soul into a hundred screaming pieces." my hand came up to rub my chin, thinking of a task to keep the boy busy. It didn't take too long to come up with something, and even an appropriate reward to go along with it. "Why don't you return to your chambers, and start to study into ritual craft. You can take any female of your choice from Kargath's personal harem as a reward for being the first to make the right decision."

I laughed as he left the throne-room with a mixture of fear, confusion, and excitement. It had been a surprise to see that Kargath was an Orc of culture, keeping a number of fel-orc or even traditional green-skinned orc women for his own personal harem. He had good taste too, they were all busty, wide hipped, and long legged. Most of them even had full heads of hair, which was really the only drawback I had seen in any of them.

Most of them were surprised to see what looked to be a human coming into their chambers, and when it was clear I had come to conquer the place they had expected to be immediately murdered. Human weren't usually any better to orcs than orcs were to humans. They had been equally surprised to see that not only was I not planning on doing so, but that I planned to keep them for myself. They had some complaints of course, but when I explained that not only was I a dragon, but that I was the dragon who killed the pitlord in their basement things had changed a bit.

I hadn't been able to take the time to enjoy the pleasure of their company, which was a shame, but that would change soon enough if I had my way. I leaned forward on my throne as another of the orcs stepped forward. "I will serve." I nodded at him. He was another of the warlocks. I looked at him for a moment. He seemed more experienced, more capable than the other one. "Work with any ogres that don't leave, and gather several of the things I list out to you from the corpse of Magtheridon. I want as much of his remaining blood as possible gathered and stored within sealed containers. I want his bones and his skin treated similarly. Most important is the demons heart. I want it submerged in the blood and kept as fresh as possible." The orc nodded, running off to gather anything he could to attempt the task.

If he tried otherwise he would quickly findhimself working on that same task with far less autonomy, and far less flesh. That demon was strong, and while I couldn't keep him alive as I had wished his death was not without its own uses. I looked to another of the orcs as he stepped forward. He had no robe, only a dirty leather apron and some hastily throne on armor pieces "And who might you be?"

He flinched, before gathering himself. "I am Marg'dral. Last of the blacksmiths that supplied the true horde. I will serve." I hummed at his words. A blacksmith was always useful. Especially on this world. The events that had caused this worlds end hadn't left Outlands metals untouched. The magic had destroyed much of it, but just as much had been warped, twisted, and ultimately made stronger by the storm of magic. The only reason the orcs here were almost exclusively equipped in traditional steel was the difficulty of getting it, and the abundance of weapons, armor, and ore they already had.

Why take the time to hunt for ore when merely going a few feet outside your own fortification could see you killed? Not that the orcs didn't do it anyway, it's just that the various ores now available are not as common a metal for use as one may think. I spoke up as he went on about his potential uses. "How much metal do you have available, and how much of it is fel-iron?" He grew silent at my words, almost hesitant to answer.

"We have precous little I'm afraid. Only enough to make weapons for ten warriors. The Warchief was determined to keep it for his own use." Well it was more than I had before. The metal would have use for my plans to be certain, and I could get more fairly easily. After all their was a couple thousand tons of it stomping around somewhere on this shitheap.

"And how good a blacksmith would you assume to be?"

The orc tilted his head at my question. "I've worked the craft since before this world was called Outland. You'll scarce find a blacksmith of any people but perhaps the dwarves and elves who can outshine myself." I detected a hint of pride at that. He would have to do for now, and in the future he would only improve.

"Very well. You may resume your work under my command, equipping my own forces as best as you are able. I can arrange for some of my servants to help in the time before I can get you anymore actually skilled workers under your wing. I'll eventually provide enough fel iron to field an army, and I want you to have weapons ready and available at all times. " He nodded, before leaving with an escort of undead orcs.

A number of others pledged their service as well, warlocks, a warrior captain, and even the cook. I had them all set up to various tasks around the fortress. I stopped one of the Ogre captains from leaving the rooms as the rest began to trickle out. "I have a job for you, perhaps the most important one I have ahead of me. Are you up to it?

The ogre froze, before looking around. Once he was certain I was addressing him he nodded vigorously. "Good. It's a simple task, but it could take some time. I want you to find a number of creatures of various species for me out in the wild. I'll draft up a list for you, but for now I want ravagers, rockflayers, manta rays, and most importantly elves. If you find nothing else I want the elves." He nodded seriously, before storming away.

I would send others out on this task as well once I had more forces available. If it wasnt for how little trust I had in them I'd even set the orcs to it. As it was I kept their tasks inside the walls of Hellfire Citadel. They might assume I didn't know this place, but it was already mine through and through. I made sure of that the moment I arrived.

Once the captain left I considered my next move. I had managed well enough in the opening phase, and now I needed to expand my influence. Even before I take full control I would begin work outside of my more defensive efforts, but until I could move with impunity the best I could manage was what I was already building.

I stood, before walking to to where I knew my recently aquired personal quarters waited for me. I would take some personal time for myself, and then I would push forward. My next target would probably be surprise to people when I got them moving, but it would be worth it.

It was always the knife you didn't see coming that took you down, and the Naaru think they can see everything.


	86. Chapter 86

The people of the Daggerfen tribe were not a kind folk. For twenty years they had eked out a meager existence on the ruins of Draenor, fighting the land itself for the right to even exist. They had fought on even as their sanity left, even as their bodies twisted and turned into abominations. Even as the light abandoned them.

As times became more desperate, as more of their number fell from sickness, corruption, or the world itself they changed. They embraced the cruelty of their new world, taking up poison and subterfuge to see the demons and any who would harm them bled.

Now from underneath the massive, bio-luminescent mushrooms of their forest home they sat in squalor, watching as the Horde and the Alliance alike fought to claim the land they had abandoned when it was convenient for them. They where a territorial tribe, unaffiliated with either faction and ultimately working only for themselves. Many claimed it was the madness that had washed over their minds, that the taint of fel magic had stripped away their ability to reason.

One being knew the truth about them. The one the Draenei forced themselves to ignore. It was in that single large village that the Daggerfen primarily established themselves, with only a scattered few hamlets and outposts to call their territory they were isolated, and alone. It was in the shade of their bitter home that something changed.

From the maddening, constant storm that made up the sky of their world a single lit showed itself against the darkness, catching the eye of their hunters and villagers, their gatherers and warriors alike. It glowed pale shade of red, and it wasnt long before the same pale light it produced shined over them all. It struck the earth with a boom, just outside their village, into a small stream running ever more scarcely with water. From the rapidly waning firelight two massive wings spread, tearing a clearing over their mushroom shaded sanctuary.

A pale dragon took a single step forward, towering over their village. It moved in silence, yet they all saw the creature in it's full glory. Glistening white scales, glowing purple eyes, and a unsettling presence that washed over them all.

Fear fell over the tribe in its entirety. An all encompassing desire to run, to flee from the dragon that had landed before them, glaring down and bathing them all in crimson light, yet they couldn't bring themselves to look away from it's splendor. How could they? When under it's shine they felt something they had been denied for over a decade.

It was small, sparking wrong against their souls, yet it was there when nothing else had been.**"You're prayers have been answered!" **The dragon roared out. **"You suffering, desperate calls for aid have not gone unheard!" **Even past the haze of the creatures magic they froze at it's words. Was it true? Could their pain finally be over?

**"I have heard you! I have witnessed your pain!" **The dragon spoke as if he had been present for their agonizing existence, sympathy sounding from word.

The beast quieted for a moment, his words washing over and through them. The spark they felt twitched as he continued. **"But I am not the light that has forsaken you. Even now, it ignores your call. Even now, knowing your pain, it punishes you."**

Many of them lowered their heads at his words. It was a frequent thought among their people, but one never acknowledged, never given life outside of their own minds. With the dragons every word it became more real. His every breath pushed at the spark taking form inside their bodies, inside their souls.

They felt the crimson light burn where its counterpart once flowed throughout their bodies, always ready to answer their call. It hurt even to feel its presence, but it was a true blessing compared to the emptiness of before.

The gnawing emptiness, the loneliness it brought upon them all had been unbearable. The youngest of them had lived nearly a century with the lights touch since the day of their birth. The oldest had been blessed with millennia.

They could only listen in silent agony as the dragon spoke on of the betrayal that had broken them.**"The Light punishes you for the crime of being corrupted against your will. The audacity of being victimized by the very demons you thought it would protect you from."**

The dragon shook it's head. **"In your hour of greatest need, was the light with you as you were promised it would be always? In the darkest time of your lives, when the light should have shone brightest, did it not flee from your presence?"**

Tears fell as the weight of their isolation fell once again upon them. Many fell to their knees in anguish at the reminder of their pain. Yet, from that same growing spark that burned where the light once did, anger began to rise.

**"And now, those more fortunate than you, those with the luck to have been able to escape this world in time return with their imagined superiority. Those still touched by the light look down upon your pain, they turn away from your suffering. Many even believe you deserve the fate that had befallen you."**

The dragons gaze pierced through every one of them as the broken sadness that had existed since their change grew to new heights, as the hate the light had already instilled grew with every word. **"Are you not as disgusted as I am? Do you not feel the same vile beast rising in your heart at the mere thought of the light still declaring themselves the greatest good?!"**

From the ground where they knelt, fists clenched, teeth gritted, and tears once flowing with despair came instead with the fury of betrayal. All around the village broken Draenei began to tense, coiling themselves against imagined foes. **"The light has abandoned you, and now it is time to decide whether you serve it in spite of its hypocrisy, in spite of its lies to those who serve in its name, Or, if you will follow me, and strike out at your oppressors!"**

The dragon spoke on as the Draenei remained silent, seething with more intensity at every moment. **"Under my wings, under my gaze, never again will you be oppressed."** A reptilian grin spread across its face. **"Never again will you grovel at the feet of hypocrites and slavers, of those whose only merit above any of you was that they reached the ships first!"**

Their own bodies turned against them in the end, in many ways just as the breaking of this world had. Their blackened rage built and built, refocusing on all they had already despised, tearing away at what few values remained. One by one they began to stand, no longer responding to the dragon's word, but to the growing voice in their own mind.

The dragon grew silent, watching as his power weaved through them, as a bastardization of bloodmagic fueled by a corruption of divinity ate away at their hearts and minds. He didn't speak a word aloud, but they could still hear him. His every whispered word intermingling with their thoughts and instincts.

_**"The time for forgiveness has passed. The time for kindness has passed. The invaders don't deserve this world."**_Once frozen. the Draenai began to break away, taking up arms and readying themselves. Word had to be spread, _**needed**_ to be spread. They were broken no longer. Their prayers, silently ignored for so long, had finally been answered. The hungerer in the dark demanded they punish those who had enslaved them, those who had abandoned them, those who had come to this world after leaving it to rot.

In the blood of their enemies a new empire waited for them. For every foe brought screaming to their god's altar, for every enemy torn from their place of power, they would be reforged. No more where they the victims, no more where they the oppressed, no more where they the abandoned. Their time had finally come.

With a single flap of it's wings the dragon disappeared into darkness above, but the whispers lovingly caressing their minds remained.

**Sieze your revenge.**

**Seize your justice.**

**Seize. Your. Glory.**

* * *

The past weeks had been eventful for the joint war effort against the burning legion, and their champion on this world, Illidan Stormrage. The additional aid of the forces of Marcus Moonbrook have seen to an influx of succesful supply runs past the fortress of Hellfire citadel, providing much needed aid to those on the front lines of the war for control of the Black Temple. Many had been surprised at the considerable change the neutral human faction had brought to the war-front, but the addition of an entire army of Ogres, and a sudden trade pact with the Blood-Elves had established Westfall not only as force to be reckoned with, but a party that could ultimately shatter the tenuous balance of power between the Horde and the Alliance.

It had been the first Commander Nazgrel had heard of the human, but once it was clear he had a part to play in the ultimate fate of Outland he decided to look into the mans history. The human had quickly become a rising star among the Alliance, even with the secession of his territory from the kingdom of Stormwind, already he had become the most famous necromancer in the Eastern kingdoms, and perhaps the whole of Azeroth. He was noted for being the first necromancer to have ever left the service of the Scourge to seek out old allegiances, claiming to serve his people, and his people alone.

In mere weeks he had doubled his territories size by assuming control of the neighboring province of Duskwood, and forming an ever growing military from the destitute and otherwise hopeless vagrants that had come to call Westfall home. The opinion of the man had been mixed at first, many claiming him to be an ambitious upstart preparing the land for an inevitable assault by Scourge forces, others claimed the human was simply an angered citizen of poor circumstances, using dark powers for the greater good of his people. The only agreed upon fact was that he was not supposed to be a threat as an individual, only for his posistion as a leader to a potential full rebellion against Stormwind itself.

If that had been all he would have marked the human as someone to be watched, if only for his unpredictability, but then, no more than a month after his arrival, word reached his forces of another feat, one of far more pressing concern. The human had traveled to the Quel'Thalas, establishing the already well known trade pact between the two peoples, along with a message to the Warchief made expressly to show him as a neutral party. It was well enough known even before the human arrived, but the reason for his succesful negotiations only revealed themselves some time later.

He had personally stormed the fortress of Deathholme, and slew the arch-necromancer who had taken command in personal combat. Nazgrel was an orc with little interest in magic, but he would be a fool not to understand the magnitude of that feat alone. A necromancer the Scourge trusted with a high value conquest was the kind of creature that could raise armies of the damned at a whim, that could match the greatest of warlocks and shamans with ease. For a barely acknowledged necromancer to have managed such a deed he would have had to be at the very least on the same level of skill in magic, if not more so.

That meant Marcus represented not just his country, but an army in and of itself. He had already heard several adviser's of Thrall inform him of the extent of the danger he could represent on his own. Westfall was a land littered with corpses of all kinds, and Duskwood was reported to already be a charnel pit on its own. If a necromancer of that level of power controlled the territory, an attack of any kind would be met with severe casualties. The land itself would then be a weapon to be used on The Horde, and while they were unlikely to meet resistance on the coast and the beaches, every step they took further into that land would be another step over the graves of those the Defias had been murdering for years.

Westfall had gone from open and ill defended territory in all factions eyes, to a deathtrap that could spell the end of entire armies. Nazgrel looked over the war-map for a moment. The human had yet to make open use of his powers, not doubt out of some kind of hesitation or sense of honor, but that could always change. He moved a marker over where he knew the human had set his Outpost, one that displayed the camp as one of extreme interest. The human had positioned himself as a watcher to the Fel-Horde, and had reported that his raids had been successful so far.

He lifted a flagon to his lips. Yes, the necromancer was someone to be watched at all times. He could only thank the Alliance for the lack of care they had for the territory bordering their heartlands. Perhaps the horde was no better in many ways, but they didn't leave an entire province to rot just outside their doorstep. He paused at the sound of footsteps, and the voice of one of his messengers.

"Commander!" He huffed, bursting into the hall, holding up a letter for all to see. "I have news of Hellfire Citadel!"

"Reports say the lord of Westfall has slain the Pitlord Magtheridon!"


	87. Chapter 87

**"Malius!" **The Feralfen tribe chanted. **"Malius!" **I spread my wings at their adulation, basking in their worship. There were several tribes of Draenei within the Zangarmarsh, trying to survive even as they devolved with their every breath. They had received the short end of the stick quite some time ago, and they broke down with every errant moment.

I had sent out word of my success with Hellfire Citadel, marking that the fel-orcs manning the walls should soon be either isolated and without supply, or hunted down by the literal skeleton crew I had manning the main fortress. I had the largest and most direct path into the rest of Outland opened for joint Horde/Alliance forces, but refused meetings with leadership as a result of injuries I had "sustained" in the battle. Now I was laying the groundwork for the next phase in the least corrupted area's of this land. It wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't hear the spirits screaming at my very presence.

The worst part was I couldn't silence them, not yet. The Cenarion Circle needed to die first. I would not allow word to spread of me. So instead I focused on my new people.

These "broken" were one of the main reasons I had taken the time to search through the marshes in spite of the annoyance being in its proximity brings me. After some research into the biology of the Draenei I had managed to draw a single conclusion from the broken creatures. It wasn't the corruption that caused them to twist into the creatures they were, at least not on its own. The Draenei had a close, and biological connection with the light, so much so that every draenei felt its presence far more closely.

They had evolved as a race with an even greater connection to magic than even the Elves did, and that ran deep in their races bloodline, my own theory on the matter is that when the exiled Eredar began worshipping the light in full following the escape from their homeworld their bodies eventually adapted, growing almost dependent on its presence.

I believe that when this world fell they were touched by demonic magic, which started the process of corrupting them in much the same manner it corrupts all fauna. The only difference was that the light that had taken more generalized magics place in their bodies fled the moment fel magic began to make it's changes on their bodies, cutting them off from it's touch and leaving them in a state not dissimilar to the Wretched elves.

They didn't feed on magic quite like the Sin'Dorei do, but they had a similar reliance. It didn't take me too long to find where that absence existed in their bodies, and once I had figured out how to tap into that emptiness all I had to do was make it clear that I could be there for the broken and the lost in the Lights place. I fed them a loop of arcane magic, their own life force, and a small, almost imperceptible sliver of my divinity, directing it all with bloodmagic.

The poor things didn't stand a chance. Most of those I fed my magic to directed their worship in my direction without even realizing it. All the tradition and prayer they once practiced for the light had not been forgotten, and even though it had been years since direct worship had been practiced, the moment the spark came to take the lights place all that tradition and blind loyalty returned. That worship immediately found its way to my power through the connection I forged. In the weeks since I had made my first attempt on the Daggerfen I had managed to restore nearly a quarter of the strength I lost to Magtheridon. When I fully recovered I imagined I had a neat little boost to look forward to because of them. Still, faith found its own way. Many turned to the elements for the same comfort the light provided, and while it certainly touched them it often only emphasized what they lost.

It wasn't always perfect however. I found that the broken needed convincing, direction, reasoning. They understood that what was growing in them wasn't the light, and the first few attempts without my direct intervention had been far from successful. They thought the demonic magic they had resisted for so long had finally broken through, and killed themselves over risking harming those few they still loved.

The lost ones however, where another story entirely. They weren't just broken, they were shattered, most of them nothing more than a mess of conflicting instincts and hazed memories. They throw themselves at my feet for the barest hint of what they lost, what was left of their minds willing to do anything to combat the abyss in their souls the light had left them.

Even those who could still be considered sapient were too far gone to do anything but weep in joy at the emptiness finally leaving. I had the hearts and souls of the lost without a word, and I had thousands of them already. My voice sounded in their hearts, in their souls, piercing the fog of madness that had overlooked them for so long, and as my magic slowly put their minds back together they would find a very new set of priorities. I was reforging them as I wished.

Many found themselves instinctual painting my runes on their flesh, readying their bodies for the battles to come. Every kill would fuel the spark inside them, taking the place of the lifeforce I was draining away from them and giving me reign to change their bodies as I saw fit. For now they would be nothing but a feral throng of savages fighting in my name, but that would change as more blood was spilled, as more power siphoned into them.

The "blueprints" were already there after all, and while they would never be as they once where I could start to give them a push back into a more stable form of life. Now it was only a matter of playing the waiting game. I took to the skies again, leaving them with my whispers. I kept above the marsh, just high enough to give me some distance from the other nature spirits. I could deal with them later.

Three other sets of wings shadowed me as I took flight. The nether-drakes had taken to following me as I went about my business, watching as I built an army for myself. I paused when I caught a voice on the wind. Nazan. **"My lord." **I slowed, stopping to hover in the air at the drakes had all been quiet, in fact I don't believe I heard a single one of them speak over my repeated travels through the Zangarmarsh. They went about the tasks I had for them without a word, going back to following me about whenever they finished. It seems they had finally lost their patience. I looked to Nazan, waiting for him to speak

**"You claimed your purpose on this world was to seize control of our kind, to strike off the chains of our slavers." **I inclined my head. The other drakes looked interested in his words. They must have been curious too, if a little too skittish to bring it up. I had picked up on their impatience some time ago, anticipated it actually. They held on to my promises like it was their only lifeline. They wanted a taste of the world I had promised to build.

**"I certainly did, and I intend to keep to that purpose."**He was silent for a moment, gathering the courage to question me. They respected me, they feared me, but they didn't yet trust me. I would see that change soon enough.

**"Then why do we not move for the Dragonmaw, or establish your plans to the Netherwing Fields? I'm certain you would find allies so long as you proved yourself. You could have an army of our kind at your side, so why bother with these creatures, or any mortal for that matter? We hold ourselves back, and you've taken to flying at heights that would kill your lessers simply to hide while you gather some paltry force of worshippers and the insane." **I let out a small growl at the slight disrespect, and waited as he silenced himself, staring him down for a moment. I spoke on once it was clear he was half sure I would kill him.

**"I'm certain I could establish myself to your people, and even gather an army as you've said, but to do so means revealing myself fully. The Netherwing are not the only ones who would take notice of my power, and I need more than just their strength to take this world. More importantly I need more strength to keep the world. My plan was never for the dragon's alone to exist on this world, even though I do mean to have them lead it. " **As much as I enjoy big power plays, it was true. A dragon seizing control of the scattered Netherwing was something everything on this world would take notice of. I didn't like the idea of doing something like that without a more established powerbase.**"I'll be fighting every significant faction on this world very soon, and to do so I'll need my own to be the strongest. It's best to hold back, let my enemies destroy themselves while I grow stronger. If I have my way they'll know I'm coming most of the land already belongs to me. "**

I held a claw into the air. **"You can be bold, you can be forward, you can be ambitious, and you can be brutal, but never rely on a single plan, or when it breaks down you'll have nowhere to turn. Do you understand?" **Nazan nodded, I watched as new understanding filled the drake. He was smart, but it seemed his disdain for mortals was blinding him. Slavery scars even dragons. **"Now return to you roost, I would prefer to see what comes next alone."**

With that I turned around, flying higher and higher into the air as they split off from me.

* * *

Eventually I broke past the world itself, touching the searing energy above, and healing as it started to shear the flesh from my body. I circled the land, watching the marshes and Terokkar as I did. I watched and listened, not with my eyes or ears, but my nature itself. I could feel my newest worshippers as they began their respetctive works. Even so soon after I took control of them I was already seeing it bear fruit. The lost and broken alike knew the marshes well, and even now horde and alliaince forces traveling through were disapearing, never to be seen again.

Once my faith began to spread, and it almost certainly would, it would spread like wildfire. I'm certain the free broken within that land would so belong to me in their entirety, spreading it outward into Terokkar, Nagrand, and anywhere else they lived. Those who werent free would soon find themselves liberated by a united people, and educated on their new faith. For now the majority broken and the lost had no real faith, but that would soon change.

The best targets would be those who still clung to the light. Shattrath. Within that place the broken watched as the faithful basked in the light, desperately worshiping in the hope it would return to them. My spark would find them soon, and they would soon discover the hate beneath that despair. My word would exist in the ears of every transeint in that city. The most beautiful part was that I'm certain they wouldn't be noticed. The broken were already corrupted, they would seem no different with a spark of nature inside them.

I have such plans for that Naaru.


	88. Chapter 88

_To King Marcus Moonbrook of Westfall,_

_It has been two months since our latest correspondence, I apologize for failing to report on the events of the last month but matters have stolen my attention away from all but the most imperative matters. In particular the construction of the fortresses along the Deadwind and Stranglethorn borders have been a cause for much of my concern. We've hastened construction on both ends due the war between the Amani, and the Gurubashi. From what reports say it's some kind of religious conflict between their two patron god's. The escalation has seen an increase in kidnappings all over the countryside, and both sides are desperately resorting to more and more gruesome practices to see their rivals fall. Most worry the victor, whomever it may be, will turn their eyes on Westfall for it's new wealth and relatively weak military. I've personally seen to the training of our militia's and footmen as well to properly combat this but I fear our only hope against them may be the fortifications themselves._

_We've received an influx of refugees from Elywnn, and the Redridge mountains, and our numbers have nearly doubled. The growing number of fishing villages have been surprisingly effective, the trade with traveling sailors and caravans has seen many of them sustaining themselves far more quickly than the farmsteads have. The mages you hired to help restore the land have made progress with their strange and bloody rituals, and while the progress has been slower than I might have hoped I apologize for doubting your decision on the matter. The masks they wear and the inscriptions on them are unsettling to most of our inhabitants, but no one can deny the help they've been. We've already begun to provide the now fertile land to more of our citizens and we may even see an abundance over the next harvest. Ebonlocke has seen to the defenses over our river boundary with Stormwind, and over setting an appropriate toll for passing travelers. He reports that our trade efforts with Quel'Thalas have been productive, the elves are willing to part with much of their gold for our food and lumber._

_The mines are producing well, and the metal has been useful in constructing and arming our men, though I will again insist we dispatch with the undead as soon as possible. On the matter of the undead, your harvest Golems have seen success in clearing Duskwood of the majority of the creatures, but pockets of them still remain. I've allowed a cloister of night-elves to go in search of the potential cause of the curse that's befallen the land, but they've seen little success. A number of reports of also warning of dark-riders outside of Karazhan have been made by our border guard, and we've had three deaths attributed to them._

_On a brighter note, our financial reports have come in, and they predict that within the next six months we'll no longer be running on a deficit, and the nation's coffers will begin to fill without your continued personal intervention. It's also my pleasure to report that the manor where the ruins of Moonbrook village once stood has finally seen completion. Once again I respect your desire for privacy, and the necessity of using the undead to see personal construction handled while the rest of the workers handled more important matters, but I will ask that next time you refer instead to the workers guilds for such projects._

_I've heard you've met some success with the War effort in Outland, though many of the rumors have been unbelievable to say the least. I've heard everything from you slaying Illidan personally, to raising an army of the dead to fight off a million strong army of demons and save the lives of both the Warchief and Varian. Most commonly they claim for you to have seized a demonic bastion, slaying a Pit-lord in single combat. Are any of these rumors of any truth? Does the war go as well as they say? If not we can see to men being rallied and brought through the Dark portal in three weeks at most._

_-Gryan Stoutmantel, Commander of the Westfall Guard._

* * *

I tossed the letter into the brazier at my side, my jaw clenched. Things were going well, fantastic actually, but it was one passage in particular that caught my eye. Dark riders in Karazhan, and elves at my doorstep. They where looking for the scythe, and I still have no idea where it is inside that forest. That was unacceptable. The scythe was far too much of an asset for me to let it fall in any hands but my own, and I had no way of stopping either of those groups from finding it. Not unless I was foolish enough turn into a dragon and fly through the portal myself. It was almost tempting, if only so I could watch everyone shit themselves at the sight of me.

I could only hope Antheol's work finished soon. I had relayed a number of tasks to my servants before my departure from Azeroth, among them had been for the Illustrious magister to begin work on a portal of our own. Nothing quite so fanciful as the Dark Portal, but a passageway for me to travel with less prying eyes on it, along with a way for me to transport goods, materials, and some of my more magically able servants. Hell, if they got it done quickly enough it would be a solution to my energy problem as well.

A day on Azeroth could restore more of my power as a nature spirit than a month here after all. It just came down to a matter of time and effort. I hadn't made it a direct priority to Antheol when I had drafted the message, and it was difficult to communicate without giving away several key pieces of information about myself. I had been able to influence my worshippers on Azeroth to a degree, and I even had an idea of how things where going for the Amani, the murlocs, and even a tribe of Ogres I had missed that I believed now hid out somewhere in the mountains near Duskwood.

Unfortunately Antheol and my other casters weren't worshippers, they were slaves I had specifically isolated from any outside forces. The portal we were creating was a less complex creation than one would think, but it was still weeks of gathering reagents and carving a preprepared archway after he eventually decided to get started on the work. I had arranged my own Archway of the same make inside Magtheridon's lair, and my new garden, but that wouldn't count for shit until the other side was done, which left me with few options. Things were well in hand here, but I doubted my Harvest Golems would be enough to do anything to someone preparing to take the Scythe of Elune.

Neither the night elves, or anyone else who wanted it would send mediocre servants to handle that kind of task. One of them would definitely find it soon. I needed a competent servant to handle that kind of enemy, and I doubted any among the trolls or murlocs would be capable of that. I stopped for a moment, before a smile came across my face. I did have somebody. He was close enough to where I wanted, capable of traveling quickly, and most importantly strong enough to fight the best of what almost anything could throw after the Scythe.

Immediately I stood from my throne, practically flying as I made my way down the shadowed and empty halls of my castle, passing only the occasional skeletal guard as I ran. I ascended the stairs until I was nearly at the citadels highest point, before I passed through the prisons and into the chamber that overlooked Magtheridon's prison. I had the primary entrance to the lair blocked off completely, and smoothed down so that no-one would be able to reach it from the inside. The chamber floor, once grated and easily seen through was blocked off by blackened roots, the only notable way down a small opening the floor where I originally torn through. A fog of shadow prevented any from looking inside.

I stepped through the opening, feeling a rush of cool air over me as I stepped through the ward I had overcharged to prevent any kind of entry aside from myself and any I allowed through. Roots climbed their way up the tower, forming a spiraling staircase down into what was now my personal garden, and a place I used for anything I didn't want seen by prying eyes. Torches alight with magical flame illuminated a dome four hundred feet across, covered in unnaturally dark green grass. a few scattered clusters of trees covered in poisonous, richly colored purple needles sat along the floor, producing a bio-luminescent green haze around the room, darkening into a blackened mist with occasional flashes of color around them.

An archway sat opposite of where the entrance to the garden once was, covered in inscriptions and glowing slightly at the power I had poured into it at it's creation. Scattered about the room, perfectly still and almost unnoticeable among the trees were the forms of my most recent creations, the nascent nature spirits born of my own power. I was keeping them here so I could observe any changes in them as they grow. They had been coming along nicely over the past month, and I was certain they would gain awareness soon.

In the center of the room sat a teleportation circle, designed for travel across Outland when I didn't want to be seen leaving Hellfire citadel. It was becoming a pain to turn into a bird, find a place to hide, circle back and grab the drakes, then go to wherever I needed to be. Better just to set up a few circles somewhere and travel in that manner. With the Horde and Alliance supply lines now cutting directly through my tower It was growing more difficult to move stealthily every day.

I drew a clawed finger across my wrist, spilling blood onto the ground below me, quickly forming into a circle of inscriptions that where entirely Voodoo. There original purpose was to be used to aid a witch-doctor in contacting the spirits, and their allowed the spirit of the caster to disconnect from their physical form, crossing the physical world and into the spiritual one. They normally followed along a tether connecting them to the spirit in question, whether it would be one generated by a physical object of importance belonging to the entity in question, or your own spiritual bond was up to the caster, and tended to change based off of what they where looking for.

Normally gods weren't the ones to do that, but I was willing to make an exception. Normally such a thing was impossible from a different world without a significant expenditure of power, enough to kill ten casters fairly easily in fact, but with my own I doubted I would have such trouble. With that in mind I sat inside the circle, humming the words Ti'Swena had taught me. My Zandali(Trollspeak) was a bit rough, but I believe it translates to "The spirit world calls, and I answer. I call, and it answers in turn."

When I opened my eyes again I was looking at the spirits of the dead around me, kneeling in silence at my feet. All worshipers of mine who died, likely in battle. Most of them where in a state not dissimilar to hibernation, a result of my afterlife not quite taking shape. Most Loa and other such beings had time to put theirs together, mine was just shadowed mist and kneeling worshipers. Not pleasant, but a hell of a lot better than most of them would have gotten otherwise. I looked at them for a moment, than to the tether I would be using to contact my servant. It seemed almost like a single red piece of string, just a thread leading above me and into the abyss ahead. There were thousands of others, but I knew by instinct alone which of my servants every one of them belonged to.

I grasped onto it, pushing my power through it like a fire hydrant would a straw. It was unsubtle, painful, and likely would have killed any living being I did it to. Luckily for me he wasn't alive.

**"Lonnas Dawnstride, I call upon you."**


	89. Chapter 89

Hellfire Citadel was a disturbingly familiar fortress, a bastardization of the old ways his people were struggling to return to. To Nazgrel it represented the worst his people were capable of. Where the Horde had only escaped the control of the demon's, and the endless rage, with sacrifice and loss no one would ever truly acknowledge aside from the orc's themselves. In the end it was only the sacrifice of Hellscream, and the intervention of Thrall that even gave them a chance at some kind of redemption.

Thousands of his warriors had either died, or been dragged into that terrible place to be tortured and converted. For months he had been waiting for the opportunity to tear that fortress down himself, to have the head of Kargath on a spike for all to see, to free the warriors who might still be saved. He had been delighted to hear that the citadel had been taken from Illidan's hands, and he had been pleased to hear that the Pit-lord within had been slain. It was the demons killer that gave him pause.

A human leader, a king, had stolen the fortress with the power of undeath and an army of Ogre mercenaries. It was difficult to say he appreciated the man's effort. No less than five hundred warriors were returned to the Horde that day, and if it had been anything other than a human he would have come far sooner to give his thanks. His experience among their camps, as nothing more than an animal to enchained and enslaved, had long ruined any sympathy he had for their people. He couldn't remember how many times he had advised Thrall to see the human kingdoms shattered.

The warchief had always insisted that peace was the only real answer. He had never openly questioned the warchief on the matter. He had heard Thrall's story, and he understood that his warchief had seen the best and the worst human's were capable of, it wasn't hard to see why Thrall held to opinion he did. In his own way Nazgrel even agreed, humans were not as terrible as many of his people would believe. The difference was that Nazgrel had seen the humans leadership. Dishonorable, cowardly, and cruel wretches that only sought to profit from his people's pain.

He had long ago come to the conclusion that the only way to save the good in the humans would be to cleanse their kingdoms of those same kings and lords. The humans would hate them for it of course, but in the decades and even centuries it would take them to recover and rebuild to what the Alliance is now would they could change for the better. And if they didn't they wouldn't be a threat anymore regardless.

It was not a perfect plan, thousands would die, thousands more would suffer, but the Horde would be safe, and for Nazgrel that was enough. At least once. The human king had freed orcish prisoners, and personally seen to erasing the black mark on his peoples name that the Fel-Horde represented. Eventually he could come to only one conclusion. Honor demanded he give the human his due. So with his head held high, he made for Hellfire Citadel, accompanying his Alliance counter-part. Danath Trollbane.

Their forces met along the path of glory, and though he never spoke to the Alliance commander he knew the human was just as eager to meet the man responsible for hastening the war in this manner. It would have taken months to gather the forces and supplies necessary for a joint conquest of the bastion on their own. The gates parted for them immediately, and much of the forces traveling with them kept onward, moving to reinforce the war effort in several areas, chief among them Shadowmoon Valley, where Illidan's seat of power sat.

Along the walls he saw the decayed and shambling forms of Fel-Horde warriors looking down on them with blank and dead eyes. The occasional undead warg joined them as well, likely all slaughtered following the battle. They climbed a staircase up the tower, where two reinforced iron doors opened at their approach. Inside ogre's waited for them, carrying massive axes, hammers, and swords. They each stood silently, with an air of discipline and barely controlled bloodlust, covered from head to toe in iron plated armor. Likely reforged and re-purposed from the fortresses original inhabitants.

It felt almost unnatural looking at them. He had never seen Ogres with any kind understanding of the concept of "discipline", and now that he had it made him uncomfortable to say the least. They were guided without a sound to the throneroom. The man who sat on the throne was shirtless, and wounded, the right half of his body covered in bloodied bandages and a plethora of other small wounds, most of them burns likely resulting from fel-fire. Somehow in spite of his injuries his eyes were sharp and focused, and he held himself with dignity and strength.

The human's eyes roved over both of them for a moment, weighing their worth by some unknown scale. When he spoke his voice was hoarse and strained, but stil carried the same power the human seemed to exude on his own. "Commander Nazgrel, and Danath Trollbane. If I remember correctly, you where both in charge of the forces readying to clear Hellfire Penninsula of those who would harm Azeroth. I had assumed you might come. How goes the war? I've been... distracted as of late."

Nazgrel chose to speak first, stepping forward once he noticed Trollbane hesitate. If nothing else he wouldn't let the Horde come off as indecisive. "With the main road cleared we've given all our forces a much needed change to travel time. Supplies and soldiers are being moved all across Outland to several key posistions. Among them are the forces readying to assualt the Coilfang Resevoir, Tempest keep, and of course the Black Temple. We've lost several dozen of our more distinguished heroes to Shadowmoon Valley war effort, and the ongoing seige of Tempest keep. Hopefully we'll shortly see a change in results with the influx of much needed resources, but regardless our presence on Outland has never been stronger. Several of our commanders have predicted that victory is not only all but certain, but that we should see it through within about three months.

Danath spoke up at the orc's words. "Unfortunately that's part of the reason I'm here. Stormwind is withdrawing ten-thousand footmen to return to Azeroth as soon as possible. With victory so close at hand the king has decided that full military presence on this world is no longer necessary. We'll soon be speaking with the Horde and other assosciate's of the Alliance on where forces will need to be reassigned in order to make up for their absence." Marcus' eyebrow rose as Nazgrel scoffed at his words.

"Withdraw?! To pull back so many soldiers could triple our time on this world, and our losses! Coilfang has all but drained away the available water on this world, and it won't be long before we'll have to rely on greater and greater shipments just to keep our warriors from dropping dead on the march! We can't afford to stay here any more than were already being forced to!" The orc snarled, forcing a grimace out of the Alliance commander.

"We understand the consequences of our absence well, but theirs been a problem in our territory. A few months ago, a tribe of Murlocks of unnatural size, unity, and intelligence began raiding with greater and greater frequency in Elywnn forest, absorbing the local tribe of fishmen and killing hundreds of our reserve forces. They left few survivor's and those that did manage to warn any of the nobility or commanding officers in the area of the threat were ignored. The stories were few, scattered, and came from the mouths of tramautized merchants and villagers. Most of our investigation into it suggested that their was a larger tribe in the area, but nothing too far out of the ordinary." Trollbane shook his head.

"They were wrong. In the months we ignored them the murlocs bred quickly, and their sudden unity meant they quickly turned from the nuisance we were all expecting to a horde of ravenous, man-sized creatures swarming across the country-side. Recently they moved further inland, to the Redridge mountains, a relatively peaceful territory reinforced and kept safe mostly by militias and a small army of footmen. They were ready and prepared for gnolls, bandits, and local murlocs. Not an army on the march. We've not heard from any of our outposts or villages in the territory in weeks, and our last report warned of at least four thousand of the creatures."

The human sighed. "I understand as well as either of you that this will harm the war effort, but if we don't leave now, and this war goes on even for three more months many of our soldiers won't have a home to return to. Three months could see the murloc's numbers doubled, and by then they'll be prepared to fight us for years. I make no exaggeration when I say most of us assume the Redridge mountains to be fully in control of the fishmen even as we speak. All I can do is suggest your peoples look to your shores and make certain none of your own clusters of those abominations have changed in the same manner. If you want my own advice on it I would suggest you have them all killed outright."

Nazgrel's brow furrowed. He wanted to accuse the human of lies, and treachery, but something like that was easy to verify. If he recalled correctly they did have some small forces hidden in the mountains watching for any points of interest should the need to bring an army to that area arise. Massive murlocs could be confirmed in that area within a few weeks, and if they weren't present and Stormwind proved themselves treacherous in that manner the Alliance would all but shatter as their assosciated factions would lose all trust in the humans. They were being abandoned by Stormwind as much as any other member of the horde would have been.

Which meant the humans word was at least worth considering. Nazgrel turned to one of his guards nodding for him to contact one of their carriers to see the information back to the Warchief. At the very least they could keep a better eye on their own tribes of Murlocs. The creatures existed in some fashion in every corner of the world, harrasing villages and merchants as much as any bandit would. If they were all on the verge of becoming a much larger threat that would need to be adressed as soon as it could be. The lord of Westfall himself seemed surprised as well, blinking at the development.

Marcus Moonbrook was not silent for long however, "If what you say is true, then that is a very dire issue. I'll leave a proxy among the ogres in charge of Hellfire, they know who provides the coin and they won't forget it. Once i've a proper leader selected I'll join any heroes I can with a token force and see if I can't make a difference in the battle for Tempest keep. If we manage to pull the traitor elves from that fortress we'll have a much smaller zone to focus our supplies and reinforcements on. If all goes well we'll lay full seige on the Black Temple in about five months. We've yet to see any activity from the ogres of the Blades Edge mountains in spite of their reported relationship with the Illidari. If we can keep that trend going we might still be able to get out of this world by the years end."

The king of Westfall motioned them away. "This war is now about how quickly we can win. Without Stormwind we absolutely need to focus on destroying the enemy before they can properly respond. We have the advantage, and sufficient momentum to win here, we can't lose that now. Leave me, we all have much work to do."


	90. Chapter 90

He remembered when death came. He remembered being crushed under the palm of a monster. It all ended in a single pop as his bones gave way, everything he knew ended in a single flash of red behind his eyes. He remembered fading just as the real battle began, certain in his masters victory. The life beyond his own was strange. A vague awareness of blood and shadow, warmth and security. It was almost like being half asleep, but more.

He was aware others existed around him, he was aware as others still formed into place beyond the edges of his senses. Fallen souls, just like him. He was content with the peace of it, even if this wasn't the afterlife he had expected. The change started only when that satisfaction disappeared. He felt his souls grow restless, his hunger for the hunt growing as aware began to return. He opened his eyes inside the shadowed mist his lord ruled over. When he blinked again he was in the chamber he died.

The world around his initial end was changed, but it was impossible to forget.

**"Jarg"** His master called out, bringing his focus to the small form standing at his side. He tried to move, noticing his body failing to obey his orders. He gave up on the attempt as soon as it became clear he would not move yet. Still, the world had changed beyond the growing plantlife of Magtheridon's lair. He supposed it was Malius' lair now.

Everything was smaller, too small in fact. He had always considered himself weak for his lack of size compared to his brethren. It was partly why he was so grateful for the strength his master granted. His shame had disappeared once the runes had carved themselves into his flesh. Even so he no longer felt their pleasent burn along his hide. Yet he knew now his only shame was the failure of containing the demon.

**"I still have use for you, Jarg."**The voice that met his ears was mortal, but reverberating within his soul he felt his god's true voice behind the physical world. **"After considering your failure I decided it was in truth my own. I hadn't considered the possibility of a saboteur, and as such I can't have expected you to have done any better than you did." **His god spoke too lowly of himself. He should have posted guards at their rear, his own fear of the demon, and his assumption none would interfere had cost them ownership of its prison, and the many warlocks his master desired within his service. He fought to speak, lightly bringing his head up as his master oblidged him, pouring magic into his body.

**"I-I d-did not finish the t-task. My failure." **The words he spoke, though he spoke lightly, boomed out across the chamber. His eyes glanced down to examine his own form. Tusks jutted past his skull, and nothing but a bare skeleton covered in glowing inscriptions existed below it. A skeleton with no lower half.

**"I've seen the battle through your eyes. You commanded the ogres well, you stalled that creature for nearly two minutes. Had your weapons been capable of piercing it's hide you may even have killed it, if at the cost of your own life." **Pride swelled within him at his master's words. He had served the god he chose well.

**"As a sign of forgiveness, and of apology, I am granting you life anew. A chance at power even greater than you once had. I am a generous being, and you were the first of your kind to serve, however all things come at a price." **Jarg listened as his master spoke. **"I have granted you this reward as a gift far beyond even your considerable loyalty and ability. You will have to prove yourself worthy of it, or die in the same shame I left you to wallow in." **Jarg did not have the strength to nod, but his master understood the acceptance regardless.

The human disguise he master favored smiled. **"The first test is of your will. I have been protecting your soul from the power this body holds, but once I withdraw that protection it will be your mind, and your mind alone against the fel magic pushing against it. If you fail your soul will be consumed, torn apart by the very energy of your own body. It is not the overwhelming tide of a living demon lord, but it is still far more than the mortal soul was ever supposed to accept, especially all at once. If you succeed, your soul will become that of a demon, and this body will obey your commands."**

**"Are you ready to face this task? To grow beyond your mortal self?"** A skeletal fist clenched, and his masters smile turned into a full grin. **"Perfect. I expect you to succeed Jarg." **With that the welcoming grip his master had on his soul faded into a light tether between them, and Jarg felt as the demonic magic washed over him. It came at first in a way not dissimilar to his masters touch. A burn in a core he could not truly describe, and a rising anger.

It wasn't long before the burn became an inferno of pain searing beyond what he thought was possible, and the anger grew so much and so quickly that he almost forgot who he was, why he was suffering. If he could truly emit sound without his masters aid he wasn't certain whether it would be a wail of despair or a roar of absolute fury that would echo across the room. He felt as the power tore through him, and as his master commanded he fought to make it his own.

It was an eternity, and it was also only three days.

* * *

The corpse of Aggonar was something of an experiment for me. Demons had no soul by the definition mortals used. Their bodies were vessels created or in some cases corrupted by their "souls" into what they where, and as such traditional necromancy was impossible for a number of reasons. When the pit-lords bones where brought to me, along with the corrupted and once sacred water within the pools the corpse laid within, I immediately began work on it. I had taken the time to carve a number of animation matrixes followed by a few different forms of magic used to trap a soul within a vessel. It took some work to get it to work so the souls had control over the body itself, but I had a few deactivated golems around me that proved the concept to be possible.

I had began work on this as a means of creating a more effective servant under my command. Dragons were always useful in that regard, but now I wanted to see just how far I could push the boundaries of my knowledge. I wasn't certain if I would ever do anything like this again, but I wanted something to scare the legion with. A demon nearing the power of a lower caste pitlord would certainly be a good step in that direction. If Jarg succeeded in making the power trapped within those bones his own he would be a force to be reckoned with.

I was also interested in testing what that meant for our connection. I own his soul, and I was interested in seeing what that meant when the change was complete. Of course it would be a problem if it meant he was no longer under my command, fel magic did all sorts of things to the mind, and while Jarg was unquestionably loyal now, you never knew what demon corruption could do. My own solution to the problem was as simple as not taking steps to bring the corpse into any kind of working order. At worst he would be a hostile animation trapped inside a room filled with ravenous nascent spirits.

Some of them were already starting to become self aware, move of their own accord. If Jarg woke up as a hostile and half insane demonic abomination I had didn't doubt he just be treated as a particularly large snack. My "children" as some of my servants had taken to calling them, where interesting. From what I picked up on them they weren't even old enough to think in terms of images or words, simply abstract instincts and feelings. Only one of them had been able to communicate with me at all.

It expressed annoyance at the "noise" the presence of the natural born spirits made. It was disgusted in their pained screams in the presence of fel magic. In the hunger they expressed in the presence of so much sustenance. I liked that one too. Unlike its brethren it focused on me out of a desire to learn and understand. So far the others only understood I was their caretaker, the one that kept them fed. Sometimes while I worked, especially with magic, it watched me from behind the hollowed out eyes of the skeleton it had been born to, rustling its few leaves and clicking its teeth as it observed my every movement.

It was on the third day that my test finally came to a head. My connection to Jarg, which had been fading in and out for nearly the entire day, suddenly burst outward. What was once a small candlelight at the edge of my vision was now an inferno of green flame. I felt the small amount of power his soul granted me expand tenfold as the demon soul bound with my twisted nature as a god. I felt a shared connection with the nether, and of course the return of my servants will.

The massive upper half of a pit-lords skeleton lay in the center of my garden, small amounts of tall grass had wrapped itself against the bones, feeding lightly off of the remains. I watched as it's head pushed itself up, looking to me with two pale yellow lights shining through its eye-sockets. I smiled up to my favored servant, feeling out his energy as I spoke. He was fel magic mostly, intermingled with only a fraction of my power. Not balanced enough to be like me or the spirits around us.

"So you finally managed it. Good. That means we can move on." I waved my hand, pushing roots and vines from the ground in the same manner I had for my spirits, watching as as wood grew into the spine of Aggonar, intermingling up and along the ribcage as it formed something resembling a pair of leg bones below. More inscriptions burned themselves along the blackened wood as the vines and roots wrapped around bones tightly, forming mass around the body resembling muscle. It was the same concept as my spirits, made to capture and feed off of dying demons and other sources of mana, but made now to fuel the demon soul hidden within the bones.

When Jarg stood for the first time he resembled not abomination of plant and undead, but a burned corpse. The root and vine composing his body seeming close to sinew and muscle over anything else. He towered forty feet tall, shorter than pitlords but still a titanic creature. Atop the body I made for him the skull of Aggonar poked through a mess of tendrils, the bone intermingled with the process and held into place, but still obviously not natural to the shoulders it sat upon. To me it resembled a ceremonial helm almost. The voice that rumbled across the chamber was raspy and difficult to understand, an unfortunate side effect of his body.

**"I have done as you asked, master. You said you had other tasks for me, before I am to be considered worthy?"** I could sense the eagerness in him bright as day. As much as the taint had changed him, he still desired to serve. I obliged him.

"Yes, I am sending you to the Blades-Edge Mountains, there you will find the Gronn known as Gruul Dragon-Killer, and take his life. Conquer those mountains, and the ogre tribes within. You will have no weapons, no equipment, and no soldiers to command other than those you force to join our cause, and accept my patronage. Once your work is complete, you will conduct a ritual to call out to me, and when I find you, you will present to me the hearts of Gruul, and any of his sons who fail to serve."

"Am I understood?"

**"It will be done, Lord Malius."**


	91. Chapter 91

The air around the Netherstorm was scorching and difficult to inhale, almost entirely stale and ruined by the magic flowing throughout it. Even so, the sound of hammering metal tore through it just as easily. Demons of all kinds wandered about Forge Camp:Oblivion, Doom guards, Fel guards, Most importantly the Mo'arg and their Gan'arg slaves. Great, heaving piles of whirring machinery and blackened metal littered the earth as the legions blacksmiths and engineers focused on the construction of some of their most dangerous war machines.

The Fel-Reaver. Towering, wandering golems powered by pure fel energy and used as army killing monuments to the fear every sane being holds against the Burning Legion and its crusade against all life. To mortal peoples it represented an expenditure of resources and time that would cripple most nations econmically just to construct, let alone were at least a dozen of them active on this world, and who knows how many throughout the legions domain.

Harold Burnhide, marksman of the Alliance and a well known hunter within Outland, had been assigned to observe their progress, and report of any changes that came about the encampment. He had been observing the demon blacksmiths and the guards nearly three weeks now, avoiding sight and keeping his eye on the leader of this particular outpost, Forgemaster Morug. A demon of considerable power, openly known for boasting that many of his best creations lay in the hands of the many demon commanders on Outland. Considering the quality and efficiency the camp held in spite of the naturally antagonistic nature of its inhabitants Harold was inclined to believe the demons claims.

It was helped considerably by the armament of the guards at the demons side at all times. They wore full plate of what he could only assume was demon steel, and carried weapons that seemed powerful enough to haze the air around them. Harold leaned into the cooling touch of his crossbow, bringing the weapon to bear right between where he knew the demons eyes would be. His orders had been to observe and report, but things had changed recently. The demons had doubled their already breakneck pace under Morugs command, and with a recent shipment of parts and scrap from the battlefield, they had accelerated their efforts into making more of those ghastly machines.

It seems the demons had heard news from the front, something he at least was not aware of, and were pushing all their forces as hard as they could manage. That wouldn't stand, and regardless of the personal consequences Harold had decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. If the demons in that forgecamp were denied leadership it would no doubt slow their progress, and buy much needed time in Azeroths favor. With that in mind he leaned forward from his place on top of a small hill, hidden beneath cluttered rubble, dust, and sand. It was a carefully chosen spot, specifically for its relatively unnoticable nature, and how it was lower than most other hills in the area. Too low and he would never have a good view, and if he went too high the crazed netherdrakes or carrion birds would take sight of him.

His finger drew away from the trigger when things began to change.

It started with blood.

From his elevated position Harold witnessed as as the red oozing liquid crawled across the camp at a lightning fast pace, growing to cover the entire area in a scrawl of magical symbols he couldn't recognize. Demons froze in place as the chaotic storm of energy constantly above everyone on this side of Outland grew even stronger, purple lighting carving furrows in the ground as they sat unmoving within their camp. Through the growing storm of dust, magic, and sand Harold saw as the demons began to move mechanically, gathering metal and weaponry. Above the camp two blazing purple eyes opened, illuminating the towering form of a dragon unlike any he had ever seen.

It was the largest dragon he had ever seen. Comparable even in size to the Fel-Reavers and standing so still it may as well have been one of the mechanical constructs. The pale monster glanced around the forms of the demons below with an almost bored expression. The fel-reavers, previously unreacting to the change, immediately turned to face this new foe, only to collapse as the same symbols that where covering the ground began to form around their metal bodies. Beside the creature a swirling portal began to form, burning with the same energy its eyes did. From the portal emerged dozens of humanoid creatures composed of corrupted plant life, gathering the metal alongside the demons and pulling it into the portal, and whatever horrid place they called home.

Harold could do nothing but watch as one of the legions most valuable outposts was drained of its resources and pulled into the unknown. His mouth dropped open as he watched even the Forgemaster move without words or sign of struggle, his will smothered so perfectly it was if the dragon already knew his full name. He had never even considered the possibility of a dragon using the powers of a warlock, and to see it now was almost too much to handle. Being a man of experience had given Harold a certain threshold for surprise, but this was something else entirely. It meant there was another force at work here. This area was firmly under legion control, the Illadari had been pushed out with a betrayal from the local bloodelves giving their allegiance the the Legion, and he was certain he would have heard of a dragon assosciated with the Horde or the Alliance.

That brought up another issue. The only kind of dragon in any flight that would consider the use of such magic would have to be a mad one, and this one clearly had no connection to the Black Dragonflight. This dragon had to be affiliated with something entirely unknown, and that was a matter of significant concern. Dragons like that one where not the kind of creatures to go unknown, and one of that size and power would never go ignored on Azeroth. Harold slowly began to crawl backward, flinching as his crossbow scratched lightly against the earth, scattering rocks down the hill. He forced himself not to panic, and run at his mistake. At this distance even a dragon would be unlikely to hear. His head rose once again in the direction of the encampment.

When his eyes looked back to the dragon its head was inclined slightly in his direction, and even as far away as he was he knew it was looking directly at him. With a terrified huff he stood, managing a single step before roots tore themselves from the earth, wrapping around his legs and stealing away any chance of escape. The grinning form of some twisted abomination of plant in the vague shape of an orc stood just ahead of him. It smiled with a mouth full of what looked to be nothing more than jagged and oversized splinters. Harlod screamed as its smile grew, and as the roots surrounding him began to dig into his flesh.

* * *

I have the supplies, I have the craftsmen, and soon enough I'll have the enchanter. Things were coming together nicely. The Forgecamp was a surplus of fel-iron I couldnt stand to allow the enemy to control, and now that I was here I would see it put to proper use. The demon smiths here were far more suited to working the metal than most mortal craftsmen, and their familiarity with its properties would give me an edge none but the legion have. I want more than standard steel for my army, and the Fel-reavers would do quite nicely on that end. With each one of those towering golems standing at a few hundred feet tall I was certain having most of them torn apart would give me the resources I needed to arm thousands.

I ignored the screams in the distance as my more independent creation did its work. He was growing at a rate even I was impressed at. His control over the powers I frequently used came to him in a way I was unlikely to ever truly achieve for myself. He was born to the power he commanded, and he was as much a part of it as it was him. He was the will behind his own magic, and even with his own limited power that meant something. The first time he had truly surprised me had been no more than two days ago, when he started watching me through the eyes of the skeletons and undead that now frequented Hellfire Citadel. I had almost failed to notice it. His power was so similar to my own that I couldn't tell the difference until it started to move without my prompting. If it wasnt for his obvious attachment to me I might have killed him for the sheer depth of his unnatural command of the magic I used. As it was I watched his progress closely.

I had taken to calling him Thorn. The bristled spines of wood growing along his body had earned him the distinction from his brothers.

I had put him in charge of my main project, having him dig into the earth below my gardens. He commanded the skeletons and base undead well, having them clear the earth easily into the winding passage below I had mapped out to him. The rock and dirt of Hellfire penninsula extended roughly forty six miles down, and I was having him dig around half of that distance. Without any real core or heat coming from below I had no doubt he would eventually manage the task. I hoped to see it completed by around the time I took full control here, but I would have to see.

I looked on as a number of skeletons began carting loose earth and rock through the portal, dumping onto the ground before gathering any of the considerable amount of metal littering the camp grounds they could. The soil I was dumping in the area was from the excavation effort, but I was never one for being wasteful. A number of my more sapient creations buried themselves within the collected soil, already beginning to feed off the incredible amounts of arcane energy being pulled into the ground through the Netherstorm generators the elves had put out. In a few days a forest would begin to grow and spread here, not only interfering with efforts to gather the energy of the nether, but holding the least stable portion of outland together. My "children" would keep this place from collapsing under the strain of the magic going around here.

They would prosper here, not having to take as much time to process the fel-energy as their kin in other sections of the world would be forced to. They would likely be able to breed on their own as quickly as a month from now, growing into a full set of nature spirits adapted to this particular brand of environment. With the template I had already given them for trees, grass, and other such plantlife they had all the tools they needed to survive here, and now it was only a matter of giving them the chance to force out my competition. I imagine I'll manage that for them soon enough.

I had only two tasks left for my time in the Netherstorm, and they were already conveniently interconnected. Tempest keep, and its famous lord, Kael'thas Sunstrider. I had everthing I needed prepared to capture them both. Soon enough I would have a look into the gathering of magic at a scale far beyond my own reckoning, and more importantly, one of the most powerful, skilled, and well-known enchanters Azeroth had to offer.


	92. Chapter 92

Lonnas Dawnstride was not a happy elf. He had agreed to serve this newly formed "god" as a means of personal gain, and a way to escape servitude to the Blood Queen. He had been promised protection, power, and magic in return for pledging his service. Instead he was forced to suffer the presence of the Amani for months, accompanying them through Strangelthorn as they fought to overcome the locals.

He had considered tearing his soul away from the monsters grip within a month of his time among the trolls, and in the end only two things kept him from doing so.

The cost of tearing his soul apart simply to free himself of servitude to a being that would likely hunt him down with as much determination as the lich kings servants would if he where discovered, and the immediate gratification the skull hanging at his side provided. With a crude, simplistic, and surprisingly effective array of sigils from common necromancy and voodoo this "Malius" had trapped his old rivals soul into nothing more than the skull of what was once a simple animated skeleton, reducing the would be lord of Silvermoon into nothing more than a tortured repository of knowledge.

Occasionally Dar'Khan screamed against the silent void of his prison, forcing a light vibration throughout the skull as he tried to escape. The furious and indignant rage Lonnas sensed behind the wards keeping his rival's soul in place were nearly as delicous as the knowledge he was forced to feed the San'Layn. The necromancer had taught Lonnas much in the past months, revealing all the precious little secrets Dar'Khan had gathered. It had been a surprise to learn he wanted to take the frozen throne, but it really shouldn't have been. Dar'Khan had always been ambitious to the extreme, and the expirements and notes he had on the few remaining portions of the Sunwells power had been just as ambitious.

The plans and expirements themselves where insane, but as he parsed through hastily drawn out notes forced from Dar'Khans mind he realised they might actually have some merit. That alone might have been what kept him from finding some hovel to hide in until a victor for the war to come came about.

That didn't stop him from complaining to Malius when the beings voice ripped through his soul one night, interupting the torture of some fool shadowpriest and unfortunately letting the damnable creature pass off into the next life.

**"Lonnas Dawnstride, I call upon you."** He grit his teeth as the sound echoed directly into his corrupted soul.

"Do you now?" Lonnas drawled, wiping the blood that now poured from his eyes and nose."and here I thought you had forgotten about me." Lonnas grimaced as the dragons hold on his soul grow even tighter, threatening to tug it away from his body.

**"I have forgotten nothing, little leech. You're demands have been met, and your reward will be ready upon your arrival into Outland."** Lonnas felt one of his brows raise at the dragons words. His reward? Well perhaps it was best to listen well to what the creature had to say.

**"You have done well to help my servants in the past months, securing the ruins you resideng within and giving my worshippers a holdfast to wrest the control of this land from Hakkar, flooding the land with all manner of the twisted dead and even teaching some paltry few about our shared art. I have but one task for you, before you might assume the throne of your own territory." **Lonnas grinned.**"Under my supervision of course."**

His smile lessened slightly, before he forced it back into place. He didn't like playing second fiddle any more than Dar'Khan did, but he was a pragmatic elf. Better to live as a king under a god, than die as a servant to no-one."What must I do?"

**"Within my territory, inside the land of Duskwood, my servants have been tearing the land apart under the guise of gathering lumber and clearing the undead. In reality I have been searching for an artifact of great power." **His ears perked up, and he gasped as what felt like fire began to trail along his nerves, reaching past his deadend flesh and into his spirit. **"Do not presume to think so blatantly above your station. It has no use to beings like you or I. I simply wish to deny it to our enemies in a permanent manner. I hunt for the Scythe of Elune, known for driving even the 'honorable and good' Night-elf druids into insanity and death. "**

The dragon loosened its grip on his soul, leaving behind a mark he could not recognize, and dared not examine. **"Several parties have come into my lands with the audacity to steal what rightfully belongs to me. Track them down, steal the scythe from their cold, dead hands, and I will grant you control of technology and magic beyond mortal reckoning." **At the dragons word images of a floating fortess flashed into his mind, and Lonnas Dawnstride witnessed himself standing upon its parapets, looking down on an army of the ravenous dead, their arms outstretched in glorious servitude.

**"Bring me the scythe Lonnas, and you will be rewarded well."**

Lonnas dropped to his knees in an instant. "Of course, master. I will begin immediately. The tresspassers will regret ever coming to face your might!" It was uselless pusturing, but something they both knew was expected of him. A test of his willingness to serve. Lonnas stood, making for his supplies and reagents. He stopped as the voice resounded throughout his mind once again.

**"And Lonnas?"**The dragons voice sounded amused, speaking words that both paled his already stark white skin, and stole away any thought of betrayal.**"Should you succeed in your task, I will even grant you the boon of revenge. It will not be long before Keal'Thas Sunstrider belongs to me." **For an instant Lonnas was kneeling in the cold of Northrend, gasping out as a Runeblade forced its way into his heart.

In the very same moment reality returned, and Lonnas Dawnstride was once again a monster left with only ambition to keep him sane. When he was able to stand without shaking knees he redoubled his efforts. When had the that **thing** learned about his past? About his life? He hadn't spoken a word of his hate to another soul, and he certainly hadn't left his mind so unguarded as to let the dragon take it freely. He shivered for a moment.

He couldn't tell if it was with fear or excitement.

He needed that scythe.

* * *

Mana Forge Duro. A facility created by Elves under the command of Prince Kael'Thas Sunstrider using technology stolen from the Naaru. Designed alongside four other facilities just like it to gather the magic in the air around the Netherstorm. For nearly the entire campaign it had been a target of the forces of Azeroth once it was clear just what it was doing to the land around it.

Alongside feeding the elves more than enough mana for large scale spellcasting it also destroyed the already crumbling land. The combined forces of two guilds managed to sieze control of the facility, and halt its production of mana. Now the mostly destroyed outpost acted as a staging ground for the Broken Verdict, and the Fires Testament. The guilds where of opposing factions, one primarly alliance veterans known largely for their actions in Silithus, and the other a horde guild born from the successful defense against several legion invasions within Hellfire Peninsula.

While many of both guilds members chaffed at working alongside their common wartime foes, they understood the importance of unifying efforts in the face of a greater threat. The past few weeks they had been readying for an eventual assault on Tempest Keep, gathering supplies equipment, and any reinforcements from the local outposts. They had been staving off the occasional assault of mana beasts and constructs sent by the remnants of the Sunfury still loyal to their prince even in his steadily damning path against the world they once called home.

In spite of both guilds eagerness to attack even weeks before, they waited now for aid promised by one individual in particular. Marcus Moonbrook of Westfall. A king of a newly formed nation, but one already clearly carving out his own legend among the other leaders of the world today. Considered a desperate choice by a dying people by most, he's lately made a name for himself among the common people of the land for his incredible power as a magic caster, and his continued success in the campaign for the destruction of the Illidari, and any legion forces seeking to invade Azeroth.

He was most well known and respected for the growing rumor that he personally slew a Pitlord of considerable strength and power, and his promise to directly take part in the assault alongside the young heroes who had taken it upon themselves to remove the traitor prince had come as a surprise, and as a boon not easily ignored. Few mortal beings could boast slaying such a monster, and any individual capable of that feat was an asset that they had to take advantage of. If it meant holding off for a few short weeks while the man took the time to travel to them and settle any immediate issues with the war effort at large, it was no issue.

However, when the King of the Westfall and Duskwood territories arrived at the mana forge it still came as significant surprise. Most expected a known necromancer to arrive wearing darkened robes, enchanted with countless magics and lined with signs of the significant wealth his people had recently come across. The man that arrived instead was identifiable apart from the Ogres who marched with him only because of the stark difference in size. Ahead of a small rentinue of twenty ogres clad in grey plate easily identified as demon steel, a man of average height and build strode easily through the heat. If not for the strange coloration of his armor, and the design of his helm most would assume him a footman.

On top of what seemed to be a well designed set of plate armor the man wore a completely closed off, and expressionless helm. The only indication of where the mans eyes might be where two depressions in the helm itself, with carvings of unknown design circling around where his eyes where expected to see only indication the helm was practical at all was the way the mans gaze seemed to penetrate through his armor and into the heroes who came out of their outpost in response to his approach.

"King Moonbrook, what a pleasure to see you arrive to our gathering so soon! Are these Ogres all we can expect for the assault?" It was Jonas Varkson who spoke to the man first, A half orc who had been selected as an intermediary between the two guilds. The human king pulled the helmet from his head, tucking it underneath his arm and addressing his new allies.

The human was a pale, relatively handsome man with a rather large and fresh burn scar just under his chin, leading down and into his armor. In spite of the relatively recent wound he seemed to move without pain or difficulty."I'm afraid so, but I hope my experience with... lesser known magic proves itself enough of an aid for the attack. With so little on hand we can only hope to end this as shortly as possible."

A surprisingly kind smile found its way onto the mans face, and he gestured to the fortress in the distance. "Let us make haste then, we will discuss our strategy as we travel."

**Yeah I know, I took a while, but I had some trouble with my files, and an intense need to relax for a few weeks.**


	93. Chapter 93

It's not often one lays eyes on a world renowned killer, and Stephanie Durn was certain Marcus Moonbrook fit the bill perfectly. On Its own that would have been of little concern to her, but it was the nature of this killer in particular that made her, and many of her compatriots uncomfortable to say the very least. It took all she had not to flee whenever that creature stalked across the camp, taking careful note of every member of both guilds hoping to bring down the traitor prince of the Blood-elves. It might have looked like a galant, kind, even respectable man had come into their midst, but Stephanie knew the truth.

Marcus Moonbrook was a monster hiding behind human flesh. Perhaps once she would have thought the man handsome, perhaps, like many of the women among both guild's she would be caught up in the more... romantic rumors about his legend, and like them she would have primped herself up and hoped the king took enough notice to sweep her off her feet and into the land of Westfall, and yet they did not know what Stephanie knew.

She felt it in her flesh, in her bones, in her very soul. The orcs, the humans, even some of the elves where fooled by this creatures reputation, it's careful disguise. So many of her own trusted comrades fooled by a pretty face and fanciful armor, a shining reputation and a charming grin. It disgusted her, and even worse it tore at her very insides to know that no matter how she tried to explain, how she tried to reason, they wouldn't understand. Not truly.

Even now she barely could. The man's disguise was almost perfect, and even knowing the truth of things she could hardly believe it, but the truth was there if you looked hard enough, and she had seen it the moment the man took that strange, eyeless-helm off his head. It was the ease with which the man walked in this land of death, the barely concealed fear and adulation behind his servants eyes, and most importantly the oppressing curtain of dark magic now lingering over the entire camp. A barely restrained tidal wave of rot and corruption, one that touched her well preserved flesh. That alone perhaps could be ignored, looked over, but what it did to her mind was unforgivable.

Without a noticeable effort, without any incantation or chant the walls she had built up for years, the reformed will of a broken farm-girl where slowly being torn down. Whats worse was that she knew the necromancer wasn't even trying. This creature was not a half taught apprentice who had the luck to escape, it was not a talented mage with a dark past like so many assumed. The power, the presence, and even the sheer lack of concern the "man" exuded meant only one thing.

This was a master of the craft. One that had come to this world for some dark purpose. Oh she had little doubt he wasn't lying when he told the world he had broken from the Lich-King, the fact that Westfall was still a province filled with living beings and fertile farmland was proof enough of that, but it was clear now that she and her fellow Forsaken had seen him that this individual was more than he let on. Every time he so much as looked in her direction it felt as if someone was walking over her grave.

If his flesh wasn't vibrant with life, if his blood didn't so clearly flow behind the visage of a handsome lord she would have bet her very soul that it was a lich that walked through this camp. A powerful one too. One of the few beings that roamed Azeroth that happen to be fully capable of breaking her will as easily as an adept could raise a zombie from its grave. It horrified her. Somehow this being was either this strong without the many rituals of undeath the Scourge would be happy to provide to such a clearly accomplished practitioner, or happened to be capable of nearly perfectly hiding his true nature. She wasn't sure what was worse.

How many times had she been convinced by Derek, Fallstaff, and Creeper that she shouldn't flee as she wanted to? Thrice now? She knew her friends where right, that even if they where sure the man was a creature of far greater evil than he let on, he had little cause to harm them. He had no reason to overtake the will of a few free undead when he had a whole world of corpses to draw upon. It wasn't worth the effort to reassert control over the few forsaken that marched with the Fires Testament. Why bother breaking his stellar reputation for a few extra bodies, when all he had to do was wait for the war to run it's course? Even if this creature had ambitions as great as most casters of his caliber did, he would never be so foolish as to attack now.

It would be incredibly foolish to assume something capable of handling a pitlord with nothing more than burn wounds to show for it as incautious or impulsive. To beat such a creature was a matter of meticulus planning and almost torturous study into the demon itself, or sheer and overwhelming might. To do so and be taken at face value as the man had been meant it was likely both. If it had been a lesser known king with rumored moderate talents it would have been investigated, both Alliance and Horde using their significant political might to look directly into the matter and magic involved.

Instead Moonbrook was already known for his steadily growing list of achievements and overwhelming might capable of matching any other nations leader, and even the world powers hesitated to insult him so directly. A necromancer with the kind of wealth and influence King Marcus had could be a threat to any nation, and even if though the combined might of either faction was more than enough to bring the newly born nation down the effort of doing so could damage the attacker's might enough to break the stalemate the two factions had each other in militarily. Not to mention the undeniable value of the man's presence in Outland. An insulted Marcus Moonbrook leaving Outland could set the campaign back another year considering the considerable progress he made on his own.

It had to be planned. The man's reputation was just good enough for it to have already been believable for him to have done the impossible, and now that it was clear he had actually done it no one could challenge him like they should. Especially with the man's status among both nations growing so quickly. The release of orcish prisoners from Hellfire Citadel and his recent feat of magical and martial might had made him something of a figure to the greenskins, and many considered the human the most worthy leader of his kind of the current age.

The forsaken among her all agreed that the man wouldn't take their will from them, that to do so would cause too much of a clamor as the elder and more capable Forsaken among them resisted the influence of the necromancer.

But still, it was difficult to argue with her own instincts, and every single one of them demanded that she flee as far as her tireless body could take her. It was only the reassuring presence of her friends, undead and living alike, that kept her grounded with the raiding party. She fought herself for two days before they all crossed the point of no return, when the forces sent by the fallen prince of the elves where at the strongest and it would be all but impossible to escape alone. So they marched onward, even when the reports of their scouts and hunters started to become...strange.

They had a number of experienced hunters in either guild, and many of them had winged beasts of some manner taking to the skies to warn them of any approaching danger. Owl's, bats, wyverns, wind serpents, and more all magically bound to their masters and all loyal to a fault began to report of what should have been impossible in the barren waste they marched on. Flying druids had even gone to confirm the reports, speaking of some kind of unknown mixture of nature and demonic magic.

Life, it seemed, had returned to the Netherstorm. Scattered reports of grass spreading across the territory for miles, steadily being followed be a slower but still quickly growing tide of foilage and plantlife, feeding off the local magic and quickly twisting it into something else. Apparently area 52, a forward research camp run by the goblins, had already been overtaken, forcing the small beings to flee before the growth trapped them inside their buildings and research centers.

Miles of territory had disappeared in days, and now messengers from the forward camps and high command demanded total and complete success. As things where it wasn't likely they would be able to approach Tempest keep again in the future even if they had the forces to do so, and now that the princes latest work seemed to have revealed itself it was imperative they knew what to do about the strange growth spreading throughout the land.

Even worse than that however, was that it went without question among both groups that they depended even more strongly now on the leadership of the Necromancer of Westfall. He had been quick to command they all march at greater speed, to have the scouts start watching the growth heavily, and to speak with all the druids and shamans about their own thoughts of the nature of this new threat. The groups among them most adamant about keeping distance from the dark caster and his opposing nature to their own where now eager to here his word and opinions on the corruption within the plant-life and how it spread.

At first all of them had been disgusted by the corruption within the plantlife, and many refused to interact with such a blatant affront against the natural world, but it seemed even the most puritan amongst them couldn't help but respect the sudden perserverence of the nature in what was once a nearly lifeless wasteland.

Someone like him would be familiar with such things after all. People who wouldn't even speak with the man two days prior now seemed to hang onto his every word as he advised them, bringing back samples of the growth and studying it alongside each other with a shared curiosity about the twinned nature of the magic in question. Many still hated the man for what he was, but all of them desired to learn from him now that he could provide insight into their own areas of expertise. Whispers among the camp even began to spread about a few of them being interested in utilizing this new and strange source, so easily accessed with their own power.

Marcus advised they tread with caution, but many where already attempting to commune with these strange spirits. Little progress was made for them however, before they all found themselves standing along the path that would lead them into a battle unlike any they had seen before. Their target was soon floating in the distance, just ahead of them.

Tempest keep might not have been the largest fortress they had ever seen, but it was by far the strangest. It floated beyond the rock of the continent now known as the Netherstorm, hovering just below the endless and twisting abyss of magic that hung over them all. Moonbrook easily took the lead, gesturing they follow him even as many among the guilds looked to light dusting of strangely colored black grass beneath their feet.

Stephanie grimaced as she and her comrades followed the necromancer into the fortress. Strange things seemed to follow that mans every step.


	94. Chapter 94

Krild'Nal's hands explored supple red flesh, feeling at the body of the beauty beneath him with an enthusiasm and curiosity only barely held back by the innate shyness of a boy who had only recently lost his virginity. Shosa had been a prize personally presented to him by the dragon that had taken over Hellfire citadel, she was a Fel-orc, but the corruption of her body did little to detract from her beauty. Tall, smooth skinned and amply curved as she was it was almost unbelievable to him that he got to experience her body on a daily basis. Feeling the warn and tight folds of the female, watching her breasts and ass shake as he pounded into her from behind, it was a treasured experience. One he had never known he would recieve.

She gasped lightly as he pierced her with a particularly hard thrust, bringing a smile to Krild'nal's face as he continued his efforts. Shosa had been a warrior, and a shaman once, fighting with the Horde to secure Outland from the demon's that would invade Azeroth. A few months into the campaign her unit had been ambushed, and seeing her beauty the Fel-orcs had forced themselves upon her, before dragging her back to the Citadel to be changed with the rest of her captured fellows. She had managed to keep some hold on her sanity through her connection to the elements, but it wasn't too long before her corruption stole away her connection to them.

It was only Kargath's impatience and lust that kept her from breaking just like so many other's, claiming allegiance to the Fel-Horde and betraying her people completely. There was little joy in experiencing the ministrations of the cruel warchief of the fel, but at least she could remember her history, her family. When the fortress had been taken and she had been given to him they held little love for each other, but with few options and nothing left to lose she agreed to lay with the apprentice warlock. In return for his honesty and his kindness she had agreed to trade the story of their lives with each other, and in time they had managed to approach each other with something similar to affection.

Krild'nal's hand snaked around her torso, lightly grasping at one of her heaving breast's, tweaking her nipple and drawing out a sharp intake of breath. He had never been with a woman before her, but he was determined to learn how to please her. His father had told him once that it was the duty of any orc to please their chosen mate, and while Shosa was at least ten years his senior he was determined to have her acknowledge him in the same manner. She was a warrior, and an individual of strength who had survived beyond something few ever had intact. That combined with her beauty made her nothing more than an image of perfection in his eyes. He knew he was only a young orc, but there where few people in his life to cherish, and he couldn't stand not to have her to be among them.

The direction of his life had changed now, and he had the chance to become more than a slave hoping to scrape by on his knowledge of fel magic. Once he had been nothing more than a child with some knowledge of magic gleaned from his grandfathers old tomes, stolen from his home in Orgrimmar by the burning blade and forced through the Dark portal years prior, but that time had passed. Malius, or Marcus Moonbrook as the world at large called him, had given him a chance to ascend, and he had to do everything he had to use that chance well.

It was a strange thing, being valued, even favored. Where once he feared the whip and the burning agony of his master's magic, the other warlocks feared him and the wrath his new master could bring down upon them. Where once he could learn only from watching as his old master quietly cast his magic and begging for whatever scraps of knowledge he could provide, he was given tomes of magic far beyond his ken, and readied to study ritual craft on a level he had never seen and could scarce understand.

Where once his body was left to fester under poor, meagre food and backbreaking labour, he now ate of the finest meals that could be provided in this land, and he was trained daily by the harsh but fair elf that had emerged from the portal that now lay within Magtheridons old prison. He had learned and grown more in the past few weeks than he had under his old tutelage in nearly 2 years.

He grunted, spilling his seed into the female for the final time that day. It wouldn't be wise to waste much more time today. He had to learn and grow into a warrior and warlock worthy of respect even by the dragons likely high standards. He withdrew himself quickly, clothing himself in fine but loose clothing and exiting into the halls, which now lightly glowed with preventative ritual magics burned into them with the dragons own blood. As far as he could tell they prevented and impeded teleportation and communication with the outside world. The dragon valued secrecy, and it was quickly growing apparent why.

Armored gnolls where regularly being enhanced by mages of all kinds within the undercroft, creatures some strange mixture of undead and golem, growing more advanced by the day. Strange plant-like abominations wandered the halls with more autonomy and sapience with every spare moment. A steadily growing number of golems assembled from loose stone and steel where guarding every doorway and location of relative importance.

The few surviving wargs where being bred with time and fel magic to speed their growth, quickly filling the kennels to a capacity beyond what they where before. More portals where being assembled within the basement, connecting to a number of locations he wasnt sure of but assumed belonged to the broken Draenei who seemed to worship a new draconic master. Fel iron and demon steel where being pulled away in equal measure from legion hands and reforged by a steadily growing number of captured blacksmiths from all races..

The undercroft was expanding every hour as one of the unnatural spirits controlled a large workforce of skeletal undead to dig deeper and deeper down, leaving the fortress itself held up by a massive network of roots impossible to see from the outside just to prevent a collapse. An army was being assembled, and it was growing at a rate that should be impossible. Krild'Nal had no doubt Malius planned for a conquest, and an army that could match that of the Horde and Alliance forces now marching in force throughout Outland.

Then there where the drakes, each determinedly flying between several locations as they learned magic directly from the master of Hellfire citadel, charged with murdering larger and larger groups of fell orcs. They seemed to worship the dragon in a manner matched only by the Draenei, following his every word to the letter. They seemed to have been trusted with the most information.

The young orc ignored the screams and howls that met his ears as he passed the cells that once held the sole purpose of corrupting orcs. That had perhaps been the strangest development. The demon in charge of the corruption had been allowed to live, and in return he would, in a way, continue his work. Creatures of all kind where dragged screaming into the citadel by the recently promoted Ror'Ferron, only to be thrown into the cells and one by one pulled away for "testing". It was most commonly Elves, but orcs, humans, and all manner of beasts where all torn apart by fel magic, and then healed together in amalgams of the flesh unique only in the horror their combined visage provided.

The lucky ones died soon after, being pulled away by necromancers and used as fodder to defend the more important inner sanctums. Those less fortunate managed to survive the many surgeries and magics being placed unto their form, before being tested for combat effectiveness and another set of parameters he couldn't quiet understand."spellbreaking, consumption, survivabilty, effective numbers, and compatibility with 'subjective' treatments." Most of the conversations he had heard where that this was all 'priliminary' and that a scythe of some kind would be needed to finish the work they had started.

Krild'Nal paused, stopping by a cell he recognized as the one belonging to the "proof of concept." creature. Whatever that meant. It was humanoid, standing on two legs and had two arms hanging at its sides. The shadows of its cell kept anything but a sileoutte from being immediately visible, but he could tell immediately that this creature was unlike the ones in the other cages. Where they frothed against the cells, this one seethed silently in the center of its prison. It stood at seven feet, nearly as tall as the average orc. It's breathing laboured with a kind of recognizable rage only one of his kind could understand.

The very air around the creature chilled as it observed him with the eyes of a lion waiting to pounce, instinctively looking into the orcs eyes and peircing into his very being. It's anger so palpable it was almost a physical presence in the world around it.

The young orc looked away as a chitinous clawed hand clenched into a fist, and a hiss met his ears. When he finally decided to walk away it was with a hint of fear in his steps. He couldn't understand why such a creature seemed incomplete, and why it was desirable enough for the master to demand it have its own personal cell. In the weeks such experimentation had gone on he had seen dozens of creatures more vicious, more outwardly dangerous than that one. The one the magic users higher ranked than himself seemed so interested in was clearly dangerous, but likely not much more so than the average warrior could be.

A dragon of that kind of strength wouldn't need to waste that kind of resources on something so much weaker than itself. He had seen creatures of size and strength matching the average dragon stitched together and thrown into the charnel pit that the under-croft now represented. The orc shook his head. He had magic to study and ambitions to fulfill. His master could spend such resources as he wished. Krild'Nal would focus on assuming the posistion of a warlord. He had seen orcs of skill, slaved under one of legend, and now it was time for him to take up his own mantel.

He had been rewarded far better than most could hope just for being a magic user, and now it was time to see just how far those rewards could take him. The dragon claimed they would take Outland for themselves, and that left alot of territory for an orc to begin his own clan, his own people over those who had failed him. Where were the Warsong when his father died? Where were they when the burning blade raped and looted as they wished? Basking in weakness, trying to make peace with the humans who hunted them, ignoring the demon worshipers who lived within their towns and cities.

Letting their sons and daughters become slaves. Krild'Nal would become more than that, he would build a clan that was more than that. A dragon leads now, and it would do far better to follow it and live as a conqueror, than betray it to those who failed.


	95. Chapter 95

The fortress was not connected to the land around it by traditional means. Tempest Keeps primary bridge onto the Netherstorm was composed of a light purple sheen of magic powered by two relays points on either side. It was designed to be easily cut off, so that any invading forces would plummet to their doom as they attempted to cross. The only other means were to climb over dangerously magically charged pipes pumping magic from across the land into the fortress.

Unfortunately the sheer volume of anti-teleportation wards, and anti-air weaponry in the form of constantly vigil squads of magisters meant that there was little of choice but to cross on foot. Several different plans where weighed and measured, but in the end it was Moonbrooks strategy that had the most support among both guilds.

They would overcharge the magic from their side of the bridge, hopefully buying them much needed time to cross as safely as they possibly could.

As the one to have come up with the plan, and the most capable caster among them, Marcus volunteered himself and the Ogres as the vanguard, leading the assault from the front in a manner that many of the orcs considered a "worthy" action. Stephanie grimaced at the sight of many of the green creatures pounding their weapons against shields in a sign of respect to the "human". That was perhaps the most dangerous part about the necromancer. He was almost universally well liked, his reputation a sparkling gem to all who lay eyes on it, and his mannerism and seemingly eager and forthcoming nature quickly making him a trustworthy figure in the eyes of many.

When they moved it was with speed and coordination they never would have been able to achieve without the shared respect both groups now had for the man leading them.

With the frontline warriors at the sides, the mages at the center, and the archers at the back the plan went underway simply and relatively effectively. The wardstone helping to power the bridge was under the guard of several rangers and a number of large arcane guardians, matched in size only by the ogres of their war party. An effective deterrent for most that wandered these lands, but not enough for the combined might of a bludgeoning necromancer of legend, and the casters of not one but two experienced guilds of adventurers.

With the added presence of the legion it should have been impossible for them to manage an attack of this size without the keep getting sufficient warning. However as much as the magical growth had hurt their chances of striking more than this once, it had also seemed to consume the demons and magical constructs in the area with a fervor she could scarcely believe even knowing the growth was far from natural. Many speculated this new plant life had even consumed many of the observational wards they expected the elves to place.

Concentrated spellfire from over two dozen warlocks and mages brought the elves and their creations down in seconds, catching them nearly entirely unawares. The golems where able to react with some speed, striding forward to match ogre warriors and brutes, but the surprisingly well trained creatures moved forward as one. Swinging blades and hammers in unison down into the constructs, and with sheer might shattering most of them in seconds.

As the ogres mopped things up Moonbrook stepped forward, joining with several mages over the wardstone and bringing his hands to the many carved inscriptions and sigils. If they counted themselves among the magisters they might have taken a few minutes to key into the magic and ready a strong but steady flow of magic into the bridge. Instead they overpowered any recognition systems and with sheer power they forced the bridge to remain.

The bridge surged with power almost immediately, flickering several times before burning the familiar bright green of fel energy. Several mages and warlocks collapsed almost immediately under the strain, and others kept conscious and battle ready, It was only the Lord of Westfall who drew away without unsteady breath or any visible need to rest.

"Get them some potions, we march now! We only have a few minutes to get through!" Even as his yell reached the adventurers he manifested a shield to block a cascade of spellfire flying across the gap. Several fresh mages joined him, sharing their power as he directed the shield and moved behind the reformed wall of ogres at the front. The raiding force followed suit, providing support and shielding at their flanks.

The bridge itself burned dangerously at their feet, and it was only the enchantments in their boots and footwear that kept many moving forward. Even still some druids and shamans were forced to seek the aid of their fellows, having to be carried even as many of her own compatriots just endured the pain. Undeath was often worse on its own than any simple damage to the flesh often was.

The elves didn't bother to send out a force to challenge their approach, throwing barrage after barrage of magic their way instead. The mages kept them safe through it all, shielding them against a rain of fire that would have reduced them all the ashes, only barely keeping them alive through a mixture of will and their own desperation to survive. It went on like this for nearly ten minutes as they were forced to trudge along, keeping everyone at the same pace, until eventually, mercifully, they reached the other side, where the magical barrage was at its strongest, and where their opposition would be waiting for them. What waited for them was sheer walls humming with dangerous magics, and a single set of large stone doors, nearly twenty feet across.

It was that simple rock barrier that had worried many of their strategists and commanders. They couldn't climb the walls without an army at their back, and the elves had made certain that magical means of travel would be all but impossible. They had to bring down the front gate, and storm directly down the center.

It was the Ogres who provided the greatest aid at that juncture. It took nearly a half hour of concentrated effort just to open a tear a whole in the wards large and focused enough to leave the gate nothing more than a physical barrier. The magic had to be kept weaker in that position to allow people to move through, but it was still strong, even for a race known for their arcane prowess. The Ogres, practically living battering rams at their size, managed to tear it down in half that time, their hammers crashing down on the simple rock and stone with the force of more than a dozen men. With mighty swings they brought the barrier down, crushing elf and construct alike under shattered rubble when it finally fell.

Yet for all speed of their assault, for all the ease with which the ogres brought down the gate, what waited for them on the other side was still a small army of defenders. Those who had sided with their fallen prince were few and far between, especialy among the already broken and worn population, but they were the elite, the mage breakers in their prime and the magisters at peak ability. Not to mention their constructs, fabricated monsters of pure mana and arcane power.

The ogre's wasted no time, breaking formation and charging into the fray with guttural calls in a language she assumed was their native tongue. The chanted war-cries and the name of their newly found god, some deity of strength and bloodshed they preached to all who would hear them. "Malius." He was called. She couldn't help but wonder if it was some unknown wild god of Azeroth, or a remnant of an old faith on this world before it's shattering. Either way this tribe seemed particularly Pious for a traditionally indecisive and disloyal race.

Fire, ice, and arcane slid off their armor like droplets of rain, slamming instead into the lightly illuminated shield covering the raids end of the hall as the ogres tore through elf and construct alike, their blood curdling howls sounding even over the explosive force of the magic being traded around them. She watched as elves were crushed under titanic hammers, torn apart by bare hands, and in some cases even crushed underfoot. A respectable, if amateur display of bloodshed guaranteed by the enclosed space of the hall they broke into.

The magebreakers were elves of skill trained in denying most forms of magic as it left a casters lips, capable of stopping or at the very least weakening magic before it came into full affect. They were often trained very well. However, the ogres were no magic casters, and no amount of training can prepare someone for a fight with a line of ogres in a confined space. Their brute strength and surprising speed quickly undoing millennia of combined experience and training.

Even still, the casualties the ogres did take were a testament to the skill of the Spellbreakers, those few of the massive fighters who did fall, fell under lightning quick strikes to those few gaps in the ogres armor, brought down by a combination of discipline and training reinforced with demon inspired rage and raw hunger for magic. Dozens of broken elven forms cluttered the floor around them before the magisters at the back broke off, retreating further into the reaches of the fortress, leaving them precious time to recuperate and prepare.

Cheers and cries of victory met the sight of the withdrawal, even among the forsaken. In spite of her own hesitance towards the man, Stephanie even joined them. She had to admit it was a marvelous start. Potions were exchanged, and healing spells touched those who were wounded. Not a single casualty among either guild.

Moonbrook accepted a potion from Fallstaff, stepping in front of the party as he did. It was no surprise to her that silence fell almost immediately. Many had already respected the man's legend, but this battle was already quickly killing any doubts many of them carried about the necromancer.

"Well done heroes, but this fight is far from over. My warriors will accompany you for through the worst this place has to offer, however I'm afraid this is where we must part ways. I have to secure our exit, and make certain the way is still open when you return." Dark energies gathered in his palms, and the bodies around them twitched and writhed as he spoke, Stephanie shivered as she felt the souls of those slain return, screaming, to their bodies.. "Fight well, and fight hard, If the worst comes to past I've given your leaders a way to call for my aid."

As one the corpses of elf and ogre alike rose, taking formation around him. "Do _not _underestimate Kael'Thas Sunstrider. I know not what magics he's learned since he turned, but he was my superior in skill and ability long before he turned to darkness."

With that he strode for the breach, guarding their backs even as they pushed forward. She would always wonder why they failed to question him...

* * *

When the raid group was out of sight I looked across the gap between the keep and the actual earth and stone of the netherstorm's province, catching sight of four corpses covered in various degrees of vines, roots and leaves. Thorn stood at the head of them. Their job had been to make sure no one was scrying what would happen here, and their presence meant they had finished their work, now it was time for them to prove themselves further.

At my mental command their arms raised, and from the earth roots sprouted outward in a manner not unlike grasping limbs. I shared my mana with the spirits. allowing my most intelligent creation to direct the spell.

Tasting the mana from our own spell and the keep itself, the roots quickened, forming steadily into a bridge of foliage created not unlike the lowborne elves chose to create their own architecture. Once the grasping bridge connected with tempest keep the spread went from a moderate but relatively fast paced crawl to a lightening quick consumption of all magic nearby, spreading fast enough that it would soon wrap across the entirety of the fortress in minutes, forming into patterns and sigils an experienced eye would recognize as anti teleportation wards, each of them absorbing and overpowering the blood-elves own.

The Horde and the Alliance view this attack as a short assault. A means to crush a single enemy and leave an enemy faction without its leader. I came here to conquer. 


	96. Chapter 96

As the plant matter grew along the main structure of tempest keep I cut a line through my palm with a partially reverted claw, spilling my blood to the floor. I made certain two separate pools were made of the liquid. A small mental command kept the vines now digging into the stone around me from drinking it in. At a wave of my hand the twin pools formed into a complex circle of interwoven symbols, and light application of mana had them thrumming with power. I stepped away as two portals melted into existence, each as tall and wide as any of my ogres.

With the help of my spirits, the plant life that had taken root on the keep should be more than enough to consume any extra warding Kael'thas and his magisters have set, guaranteeing that the raid would at least reach the traitor prince. I had my doubts about their survival, but they seemed capable enough to make it over to the bridge, and kill most of those protecting him.

After that they'd either succeed, or I'd have more than enough of an opportunity to go in and clean things up myself. Worst case scenario I retreat from a losing battle, and then tear the place apart from the outside, before scattering whatever's left into the twisting nether. Not a particularly complex plan, but it was effective enough. Even if it did leave a bad taste in my mouth at the potential of going back on my deal with the vampire. Not a black mark I would like on my reputation.

Of course they still needed the time to actually get there. I wouldn't be wasting it waiting around. Tempest keep had three other structures connected to it, satellites attached to the main keep. All of them had my interest, and my attention. As the first of my minions stepped through the portal, I considered just how much the people of Azeroth would fear garnering either. I looked between them, each delicious options that offered their own unique brand of help to my cause. One of my hands came to my chin, before another pointed at the first building, before trailing to each of the others.

"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe..."

I gestured my hand at the unlucky winner, my mana guiding the roots into another bridge connecting the position I stood on and my chosen target. The spirits moaned in pain as they strained to keep the structure in one place, halting its steady orbit around the keep. Once it had stopped completely they drank fully of the magic inside, quickly strengthening into a sturdy structure unto its own right.

I Ignored the half formed worship and praise that followed my steps as I strolled over.

* * *

High Botanist Freywinnn found himself pacing once again through the corridors of his own personal playground of experimentation, and discovery in his chosen field of magic. There was a time when passing by the chemists, the researchers, and the geomancers under his command were a comfort and an affirmation to the choices he had made ever since they had broken from those of their people still on Azeroth. He had never felt more fulfilled, more excited than when he could conduct his work on the lashing elementals formed of flower and root, feeling as they reached out for his touch with evermore loyalty. He had never been more delighted to see the flesh-beasts react to every new chemical his workers come up with in a different way. It had been exemplary, perfect even.

Perhaps he was a traitor, but he was doing his life's work, and making strides he never would have imagined on the world he was born to. Leaving behind the people he never really cared about in the first place? The arrogant magisters always looking over his shoulder to steal his power, the simpering nobility, and the peasants they pretended to listen to? It was an easy choice. They could rot in their already half destroyed city, broken and forgotten by the world. He had no regrets in leaving them on its own. It was the response that followed that soured the experience.

The weight of both factions falling down upon him, suffocating his research and destroying his opportunities to improve long before they could even blossom. With all the progress he had made it was almost a form of torture. The most egregious example grew just outside the fortress, covering the once barren waste of the land outside with a kind of life he had never seen before, never touched with his magic. It was bad enough that he had to suffer through the setbacks and deadlines Kael'thas' demands put on him, but now he had to wait, painfully, through weeks of lockdown as they waited for the latest attempt by the Horde and the Alliance to kill them all to pass by.

All this while he could almost taste the magic outside, feel it expand with every passing moment. So many of the spirits inside his workshop feared its approach with such a terrible need to get away that many succumbed to his control just to relieve themselves of the fear it brought out in them. The portion of his being that could see the same thing they did understood that fear, even when he himself couldn't comprehend it. What secrets would it all hold?

Freywinn shivered as he passed by yet another stained glass window, just barely making out the life just beyond his reach. If only that arrogant shit of a prince had been more subtle, more quiet in his betrayal. They could be funded by both factions, given free reign over the entirety of the landmass Tempest keep hovered around. It could have been perfect. **He **could have been perfect.

He restrained the feeling rising up in his chest, the urge to simply let go, uproot his work and move on. Patience. The heroes would die, and the spirits outside would finally be in his reach. He could _deal _with the rest later. For now he would play the loyal lapdog alongside the rest of the fools who thought they saving their race. For now he would...

His eyes locked onto one of the windows along the corridor, watching as a small tendril traveled over the other side of the glass, twisting and curling hungrily against its surface. He tilted his head, not looking away even as a great explosion of sound came from the other side of his Botanica. While his body stood frozen looking outward, his mind reeled at the sudden exposure to the outside world, or more particularly, what had just come from it. He finally tore his gaze away from the window as soldiers began to run past, no doubt readying to defend the ward the local commander had tucked away. He caught a spellbreaker as he tried to run past, just barely holding a steady tone.

"What's going on?" It felt so...Intoxicating. It was strong, growing, an ever expanding cocktail of so much conflicting magic that it should have been impossible to exist. He had to see it. Had to feel it. Had to taste it.

The soldier looked at him, confused and already irate at falling behind his comrades, he tore away an instant later, yelling over his shoulder as he approached twin reinforced doors, pushing them closed with the help of a dozen others.

"An attack! The enemy forces must have managed to breach the wards!" The elf

'The raid?' He thought. No, they hadn't. At least not alone. He could feel it in a way no mage, not even a druid could understand. He felt as something moved through the halls at an impossible pace, killing spellbreakers and other guardians as he pleased. He felt as souls were pulled back to animate corpses and have them clear enemies overlooked. He heard as the mutate fleshbeasts were burned to cinder, their voidborn origins making them a target to be destroyed with particular vigor.

He grinned as every plant borne spirit that ever resisted his control in any manner, gave themselves to him in a way no spirit on Azeroth ever would. All at the promise of protecting them from whatever found itself in his parlor. All at a promise he would break without a second thought. A form of control only a necromancer could recognize fell over them in an instant.

Freywinn stood straight, flattening the wrinkles on his robes as he processed the change, and made a decision that wasn't all that hard to make. The princes value as a leader just dropped to nothing.

Thousands of lashers, all just seconds ago dutifully following their overseers into battle, frenzied. With lashing vines and hungry mouths they turned on researcher and spellbreaker alike, supping on their lifeblood and their magic. Docile and eager spirits of nature, innocent and now unknowing of any action they could take took up the mantle of slaughter. With primal and unknowing hatred they tore themselves apart in their desire, their _need_ to follow his orders. They killed at every opportunity, breaking away and after his position as he worked to clear his hall.

All that under a principle of magic he had been forging himself for nearly two centuries. One unfortunately mirrored by the darker magics that took his homeland. Control. Freywinn walked forward, sending a fireball into a crowd of soldiers as they struggled to fight lashers so tightly sorrounding them they were within their ranks and physically on top of several of the elves. The screams that met his ears as they burned did a remarkable job of releasing the stress built up with his entrapment.

He couldn't help but yell out his pleasure, his voice warping as the muscle of his throat gave way to root and vine, alongside the rest of his body.

"Eat well children! Punish those that kept you trapped for so long! **FEED!**"

How long had he hidden his talents? How long had he pretended the foolish druids and the pathetic shamans were the only ones that had touched on his art fully? His body twisted and changed, his limbs elongating into lashing vines and his face splitting apart into petals lined with jagged, fang-like thorns. A grasping tendril shot out at an engineer as he tried to run, tossing the elf with ease through the same window he had stared out at just minutes ago, and into the aybss of the Netherstorm.

There was no need to hide it anymore. His limbs, filled with strength beyond any elf, beyond any orc even, threw the doors ahead of him open, catching the sound of screams as whatever was coming cleaved through the defenders. His children burst forward, seeking the blood and magic of any they could find.

He fed with them, enjoying the power such a direct and physical form of combat granted him over those trained to halt his spells for nearly ten minutes. Ignoring blades, spear, and spell alike as they pierced through the soft flesh of his form with ease, his form not caring of any damage done to it. Some tried to reinforce the forward defenders from further within, and some tried to escape the threat that came from without. Every last one met him first.

When the last group of cowards turned a corner, before falling to their knees as their life force was drained away in a stream of fel energy, he stepped forward, taking the form of just another elf once more. What stepped around to meet him wore the skin of a human man, one that even he recognized.

"Marcus Moonbrook. The necromancer king. You have quite a few more secrets than I expected."

A brow rose on said kings face. The voice that answered his words belonged to no human.

**"I suppose you'd like to learn a few?"**

Freywinn gestured to the Lashers eating the corpses all around him.

"If you're willing to make a deal?"


	97. Chapter 97

That same voice sounded throughout his chamber. The emotionless and familiar drone of an...elf.?

"Combat test fifty-eight. Specific circumstances are low-light conditions."

He felt them the moment they were teleported into his cell, intruding on his territory. It all clicked together in a second, the confusion and pain fading into a familiar set of circumstances.

Blind fury sheared its way through his mind. It seemed to pulse with his every heartbeat, cracking through his skull like lightning. The darkness of his cell and the whimpered fear of the orcs trapped inside alongside him did little to abate his rage. For every drop of blood he spilled from their worthless carcasses he understood more, but the anger gnawing at his soul only seemed to grow. It burned in his flesh, boiling the blood coursing through his veins.

The beast roared, baring his claws to the newest prey to arrive. The warriors trapped in his cage gathered themselves once more, hefting up crude axes and blades as they approached him. Orcs had the strength to fight back, but had no speed, no vision to capitalize on. This battle had been against them from the moment they were dropped inside. He crossed the distance in two great strides, his body nearly a blur as he attacked.

A frenzied swipe sent one orc into the bars at their side, clawing at his now opened throat. Another managed to bring up its weapon to block, only to stumble to the side at the strength of the blow. The third was caught in a bear hug before It could understand it now stood alone, and the monster in the prison took advantage. His claws raked across the greenskins back, drawing deep, bloody furrows across the flesh. Teeth met flesh just as the jailed being drew away, coming away with a mouthful of soft, singing flesh.

Demons tasted better. More song. More magic. He would make do regardless. They made him feel like he wasn't coming apart. Made his flesh feel like it was supposed to be what it was. Made him forget the stitches burning in his skin, in his skull, in his stomach, in his spine. Hurt.

It twitched away from a falling battle axe, letting the blade graze chitinous flesh as it scuttled away to regroup. The runes sang with magic along his neck and spine. More information came into his shattered psyche. Beliefs, concepts and feelings this body had no reference too. He shook his head. It all hurt far too much. What was he? Didn't matter. He was a killer.

A memory nearly made him freeze, a vision of a woman in soft sheets, a warmth in his heart, slowing him enough to take a hit from a foe he had forgotten. The orc roared in victory as his spear impaled the creatures abdomen, its call of triumph ending only when the spear was pulled from his flesh and pushed through his skull. Weapons. A way for creatures with soft flesh and no claws to harm him. A crutch to make up for weakness?

His thoughts wandered as the runes glowed again. No, not a crutch. An advantage.

As the creature rolled away from another blind swing he hefted up a...sword? Yes. Sword, that was what it was called. He hefted up the sword and swung at the nearest foe, taking an arm as he rose from the ground. Felt familiar in his hand. Extended his reach. The creature decided it liked swords.

This sword would give him a fine meal.

* * *

Arcatraz. A prison for magical beings, many of which were collected by elves, and many of which were collected by the Naaru before the ship was stolen. Father had warned him of this place. As he watched the skeletons surge forth from a dozen hastily prepared portals, Thorn began to understand why.

The skeletons were simple constructs, gathered from a thousand different battles, and a thousand forgotten graveyards. Nothing but bone stripped of flesh, carved full of runes, and sent to battle with so much magic inside them they were likely to come apart on their own within weeks. They were armed with whatever steel he could thieve, extort, or scavenge from anywhere in Outland. A hasty creation to emergency reinforcements. A temporary solution, but one that would do until father acquired the scythe.

However, the simplicity of their design did not reflect on their strength. Each one was designed to match and in some cases surpass the strength of men or elf, and the animation matrix carved into the core sitting inside each ribcage would have them reassembling even as they actively fought whatever monsters were released.

It wasn't enough.

Securing Arcatraz initially had been easy, especially with his brothers at his side. Together they controlled thousands of the constructs with ease, their magic practically overflowing with the fruit of weeks of gathering power. Even now hundreds of skeletons surrounded the first guardian, dragging its shadowed form into a portal with ensorcelled chains, Stasis block Trion almost completely under their control, further Inside however, thousands more fought mutants, dragon-kin, and enemy constructs alike to reaffirm control. The elves had fallen nearly a half hour ago, but their had been an escape.

The priority target of this area. The void born monstrosity. The being was like the shadow his minions dragged into imprisonment even now, born of magic so dark even his father, a god of magic and a being of unquestionable ambition, treated it with caution. However the priority was different. It was born in the physical realm. Like him and his brothers the creature was birthed with a natural connection to the world around it, and in that same violation of the natural laws of reality it had a strength in the physical realm the original Void-lords could never truly acquire.

It was a threat to the entire mission, and it had freed itself alongside a thousand corrupted prisoners in its own bid to take control of tempest keep, or failing that, Arcatraz.

Thorn hissed past the broken mandible of his vessel, redirecting a dozen skeletons from one waning battle into yet another completely emptied prison block, forcing them to take formation against a hundred twisted mana beasts as they turned a corner. He lifted the night-black form of a maul above his head, swinging it down and crushing a mad draconic humanoid in place as it tried to charge past.

It had siezed control of the mana beasts, tainting them from within. It had torn the minds of the prisoners and twisted their souls into worshippers as mad as any of his fathers flock. It had taken command of every golem in the building, directing them with an ease and flow not even the combined effort of every spirit his father had created could match.

It was a nightmare, and one he couldn't escape from until his father could retake command.

Thorn glanced to the side, his eyes widening as an Ogre sized Dragon-kin clad in plate swept aside dozens of skeletons, almost ignoring them as he passed by, massive spear sweeping though their forces with contemptuous ease.

"The Hour of Twighlight is upon us! Come brothers and sisters! Come with me and let us watch this world be devoured!" The victory cry of hundreds of prisoners joined it, the corrupted rallying with him even as the skeletons reanimated around them. They were being pushed back. Thorn took a few steps back, before directing a wave of felfire over the room, igniting the skeletons and giving the now flaming minions a much needed advantage.

Thorn turned, shoving one of his brothers toward a hallway behind them.

"Fallback and re-secure Stasis block Trion! The containment core is lost! I'll hold Maximus!" He turned, pointing to another two of his siblings. "Rattle, find father! Gorge, request reinforcements from Hellfire!" The looks they gave him in return were hesitant, and pained, but they knew what had to be done. No argument was needed.

He received the twin replies of "Understood." and "It will be done." , the two spirits fleeing at speeds far beyond what their rotting forms suggested.

As they fled they gave him control of their particular minions as gently as they could, but the strain of keeping the battle together was still almost too much. The wood and root of his flesh rotted slightly at the strain, and it was all he could to stumble away from the fighting, directing his forces into the border between stasis blocks. A cavernous hallway, once illuminated with the purple glow of arcane energy, now nothing but a muted blue, barely lighting his way.

Thorn made no attempt at a speech as his skeletons took formation around him, their runes acting as an emergency beacon to his location. They blinked into place neatly, disappearing from a few dozen different engagements further ahead. Undead needed no encouragement, and he wouldn't waste the effort on insulting his foes now.

The army that appeared around him was marked with missing limbs, burns, and cracked bones. Evidence that their enchantments were wearing thin, and that they had died too many times already. Apparently weeks was too generous an estimate. Thorn stood tall and proud as the sounds of confusion and battle faded away into silence, and as the forces around drew ever closer he found he was far from ready to flee, even if he found himself afraid. Father always said to face death with pride, to fight hard and end knowing that you struggled with everything you had.

What came around the corner to meet his forces was no army, no horde of fanatical servants, but the creature itself. The body that crept into view stood fifteen feet tall, nearly as large as any ogre he had seen, yet it stood on more legs than he cared to count, and it's insectoid body was covered in a thick, brightly green colored shell. The voice that sounded from the creature was quiet, but it carried across the room as if it was being screamed into his vessels ears. It's every enunciation accompanied by a seperate whisper into his own mind.

"I see my imprisonment didn't stop things from changing in the worlds around us." **"A spawn of the anathema."**

Thorn paused, what would best keep this creature occupied? This was not a fight he wanted to be a part of. The spirit tilted it's vessels head.

"The waking world changes regardless of the Void's whims, creature. Your war with the light grates on us. It's time for a winner to be decided."

"Oh? And who would be the victor in our great war I wonder? Us? The light? " **"Your anathema's abominations? What victory could you possibly grasp?"**

Thorn grinned. He had it's attention now.

"The light can see only a single truth in their blinding splendour. Your masters can see a billion. Yet, both of you are wrong. You fail to see reality from the extremes of your strength. In spite of their vision your lords failed to corrupt the titans, and now the greatest among them burns the cosmos in the name of preservation. If your truths were as correct as your kind so claims, you're victory would already be complete."

It tilted its head, it's emotionless eyes following his every movement. It seemed to wait a moment before it spoke again.

"And what does your maker claim to see that we cannot?" **"The visions can always be changed, we see all."**

"Malius has peered into the light and seen it for its lie, and he has glanced into the shadow and seen it for it's ignorance. He has seen all you fear, and all you hate. He has supped at the table of the light while you hide away from it's shine. He knows their weakness, and your own."

Thorn twitched at the feeling of dark surrounding him, the sharp caress of hands he couldn't see. He would fight today, and he would die today. Of that he had no fear.

It was just that a small part of him worried if death was really what would come of him when this battle ended.


End file.
